Off the Edge of the Map
by Black Sands Britannica
Summary: The rum-runners who used the spit of an island Jack was marooned on for a cache, have long been out of business. Not to mention out of this world.
1. A Daft Decision

-Off the Edge of the Map-

DISCLAIMER: Unless I'm 112 years old and my middle name is Staples, I probably don't own 'Chronicles of Narnia.'

Also, to date, as far as I can remember, no sane person has ever mistaken me for Jerry Bruckheimer, Gore Verbinski, Terry Rossio, Ted Elliott, or Walt Disney, so I think it's also safe to say I don't own the 'Pirates of the Caribbean' franchise.

CLAIMER: Grassroot is mine!

* * *

-Chapter 1: A Daft Decision-

* * *

Caspian the Xth, High King of Narnia, Lord of Telmarine, and Emperor of the Lonely Isles; was bored.

Of course, that was sort of like saying, 'the ornery dragon bit the stupid faun's head off.' Descriptive, yes, but there's a world of difference between just _saying _something or _reading _words on paper, and actually _feeling _the hot, yellow, mildewed teeth sinking into the throbbing tendons of your scrawny, fuzzy neck, puncturing your windpipes so you can't even scream; sticky blood gushing down your tunic, back, and shoulders; and your last sight being a long, blue, forked tongue wrapping around your eyes; your last sound being the hiss and gurgle of the dragon's breath, your last smell being the pungent reek of rotten corpse bits stuck between the scythe-like teeth, and your last feeling being pure, untarnished, _pain__. _

And maybe, just maybe, a passing twinge of regret at ignoring your far-wiser king when he expressly forbid you to go on that ridiculous dragon-hunting expedition with Reepicheep.

Caspian ran five half-clenched fingers through his black hair in frustration. Despite the gruesome worst-case scenario his mind had painted, he still wished the master swordsmouse and his eager new student, Grassroot the faun, had taken him with them on their barmy, sword-swinging quest, with the promise of near-certain death.

It was better than staying here at Cair Paravel and dying of boredom, at any rate.

It wasn't just boredom though. There was something missing in the High King's life, and not just externally either. There was something missing _inside _of him. A hollowness, located roundabouts the vicinity of the heart.

"I miss Susan," Caspian whispered to the musty old book resting beside his head on the grass, under the huge weeping willow, under the wide stone balcony, on the shadiest side of the castle.

There. He'd said it. Three words, four syllables, ten letters. Three, plus four, plus ten. Seventeen. So that was the sum of his heartache. It was also, coincidentally, exactly the number of weeks since Queen Susan had left Narnia, and this beautiful sapphire sky...

Oh, how he missed her! Sweet, practical, brave, gentle Susan. Sweet, practical, brave, gentle, _curvy_ Susan. Yes, Caspian had to admit it (but only to himself) he was- in love.

With a deep, drowningly dismal sigh, the High King reached behind his head and cracked open the weighty covers of his favorite childhood book, then rolled off his back and onto his knees and stomach, with his booted toes lightly resting on the mossy castle wall. Absently, with a dull, dreamy look in his eyes, and his chin propped up on one elbow, against the scratchy silk fabric, Caspian flipped through the pages.

They detailed the four Pevensies rise and reign during the Golden Age of Narnia. But the artist hadn't captured Susan right at all. _He ought to be gutted and stuffed for his incompetence, _Caspian thought, _but- oh wait- this was written centuries ago; he's already dead. _Not that Caspian would ever carry out such a threat even if the artist were alive, since Caspian was much too kind a king for that. Even if he was in a _particularly_ foul mood this fine, balmy afternoon. Not to mention _bored._

Boredom was dangerous, because then you had nothing to do, nothing to distract you from your own, often daft, thoughts.

Susan's horn, the one thing that could call her back to Narnia, was inside; safely tucked and padlocked away in the treasury.

The treasury, which was just two halls down from the balcony of the spare tower his booted toes were resting on.

The balcony, which could easily be reached by climbing up the handily low-reaching, unchallenging branches of the shady weeping willow.

The weeping willow, which was tapping him enticingly on the ears with its lowest-drooping leaflets.

All Caspian needed was an excuse. So the High King of Narnia made a very important decision that fine, balmy, afternoon.

He would find one.


	2. Doubt

-Chapter 2: Doubt-

* * *

"Does my hair look all right in the back?"

Lucy Pevensie pretended to think about this. "Maybe if you were trying to impress a goat, or a snail, or a corkscrew-maker, or a grapevine..."

Susan sighed. "A few too many curls?" The half of Susan's makeup-coated face that Lucy could see in the little mirror beside the school bunk-bed was scowling, and Su started yanking her brush through the top left side of her lovely, brown, over-curly hair.

"Why don't you just braid your hair with ribbons and flowers, like you did in Narnia?" Lucy suggested. "That always looked so pretty."

"One, it's Autumn, and all the good flowers are dead; two, this _isn't_ Narnia; and three, braids are unfashionable in the real world."

"Narnia was real too!" Lucy argued, stepping a foot to the left so that Susan could clearly see her in the corner of the mirror, glaring so hard that it hurt.

Susan stuck a pin, the nice one, with the blue pearls, in her hair. "There, how's that?" she asked.

"You look just like an advertisement for shampoo, or lipstick, or clam chowder," said Lucy flatly. Only prettier, she added in her head. Su always was the pretty one in the family. "and Narnia _was _real."

"Or it might have been simply some strange, shared, astral projection brought on by the trauma of the Blitz and being in a new house," Susan countered, while dabbing a tissue against the corner of her mouth, where the too-red lipstick had smeared.

"Astra-what?"

"Astral projection. A sort of out-of-body experience, where your mind goes somewhere while you don't. Sort of like lucid dreaming."

"Who told you that?" Lucy inquired curiously. Just so she'd know who to avoid.

"Bertram Torchley. A boy I met at the train station- he was going to Peter and Edmund's school."

"So is that the reason you're all dressed up? Did he ask you on a date?" Lucy asked mischievously.

"Oh- no!" Susan blushed fiercely beneath her heavy make-up. "No- um- just his step-aunt's sixth wedding."

"_Sixth?"_

"I hear she's not the easiest person to get on with."

"Not even the second day of boarding school, and already you're being invited to strange boy's step-aunt's sixth weddings," Lucy teased.

"Oh, shush. And he's not strange at all- he's ever such a nice boy- do you know, he knows everything there is to know about lucid projections, and trances and metaphysics and cosmology, and esotericism, and hypnagogia and parapsychology, and praedormitium, and oneirogogic images and phantasmata? He's so smart, sophisticated, blond-"

"I thought you _hated _blonds," Lucy interjected, by way of reminder.

"You obviously have never met someone as classically intriguing, as well-bred, as ingenious, or as polished as _him_, or you wouldn't say that."

"_I _hate him already, and I just got here," said Edmund, strolling into the open dormitory with a periwinkle-blue yo-yo dangling off his finger.

"_Edmund!"_ yelped Lucy.

"What in the _world_ are you even _doing_ here?" Susan demanded.

"_This_ world, you mean?" Edmund joked. He was wearing his blue school sweater, and his black hair was even more disheveled than usual, due to the blustery weather they'd been having lately. "Yeah, um- you know how it is- first time at boarding school, some kid plays a prank on me, and tells me we reached our school, and switches the tags on my luggage, and locks me out of the train car, so I get stuck at this _girls' _school until they can re-route the train in three weeks- _three weeks_, can you imagine?- and the worst part is, I don't even get vacation- I have to study whatever you girls are studying! No wait, the worst part is, I have to share a room with the cranky old janitor. No wait again, the _very _worst part is, I get stuck with some strange girl's luggage! At least she has good taste in yo-yos..."

"Edmund, you can't muck about with a stranger's luggage!" Susan chided crossly.

"Why not? She's probably messing with _mine-_ and having a jolly smashing time too, since I actually pack _interesting_ things, like my electric torch. Too bad I lost it in Narnia..."

"Oh, grow up Ed!" Su sighed.

"Sheesh, fine; but it seems a shame to let a perfectly good yo-yo go to waste for three, whole, weeks..." Edmund said, jerking his hand up an inch and letting the yo-yo curl into the palm of his hand. "So who was the kid you two were just chatting about?"

"Some supposed know-it-all called Bert Torchley who says Narnia was a dream," Lucy rattled off, at the same moment Susan snapped:

"None of your business!"

"What? A _dream?"_ Ed repeated, joining Lucy in her glaring. "Seriously? You can't tell me you _believe_ that rot- hold it, you mean you _told_ him about Narnia? Su, have you gone blinking nutters?"

"I didn't tell him _specifically,_ I told him_ theoretically_, in the sense of: what_ if _some logically-thinking individual stumbled into another world that couldn't possibly exist, or thought they did? Purely theoretical," Susan stated evenly. "Furthermore, his name's _Bertram_, not _Bert_, and he theorized _astral projection_, not _dreaming_, since he happens to believe the universe is a thing of order and purpose and control, not chaos and chance."

"He sounds like a regular Nazi," Edmund commented wryly, twanging the yo-yo string so that it vibrated.

"Oh, shut up!" Susan hissed, slamming her hairbrush against the stained ceramic of the bed-table, and storming out of the dormitory. Her slightly-too-short skirt crackled against the doorframe as she left. Lucy guessed Susan had used too much starch on her dress. Either that, or she'd just generated an awful lot of static electricity from all that hair-brushing.

"What bee's in _her_ bonnet?" Ed asked foggily.

Lucy shrugged, and then dashed off after her big sister. "Susan, what's wrong?" she asked, while gasping for breath, since she'd had to chase her all the way downstairs, to the ground floor. "I mean, you don't _really _care a fig for this Bertry-whatever-his-name-is, do you? I mean, you're in love with King Caspian, right?

Susan halted stiffly, and her shoulder-blades clenched together beneath her peaches-and-cream party dress, which wasn't quite zipped up all the way in back. "Whatever gave you that notion?" she asked calmly.

Too calmly.

"Oh, let me _see_,_ I _don't know, your _snogging_ him like that right before we left Narnia might've had _something_ to do with it."

"It was not 'snogging'," Susan corrected primly, "it was a simple goodbye kiss. _If _it even happened," she added quickly.

"It happened," Lucy assured her firmly.

"Professor Kirke's house was a very strange place, and we were traumatized, and none of us had gotten much sleep," Susan pointed out in an annoyingly sensible tone. "And the train-ride to our schools was also stressful. Peter had gotten into a fight. Nerves were high-strung."

"It _happened," _Lucy repeated adamantly. How could Susan just brush away being a queen of Narnia? And everything they'd done there? All the adventures?

"Lu, you might as well hear it now before you get old enough for it to bother you," Susan lectured stiffly, "in the _real_ world, boys such as Caspian simply _don't _exist."

Oh. So that was how Susan could forget. Remembering was too hard.

Because Susan could never go back.


	3. Marshwiggle Logic

-Chapter 3: Marshwiggle Logic-

* * *

"Good afternoon," Caspian said to the gardener, while strolling cheerily by.

"Now there's a biased opinion for you," the gardener croaked dismally, ending her sentence with a sniffle. She wiped the back of one webbed, blue-freckled hand under her flat nose, then wiped her hand on the large primrose-pink pocket-handkerchief flopping out of one of her work-skirt's many patchwork pockets.

"Pardon me? Caspian asked, puzzled.

"Well it would be a good afternoon, I_ suppose_, if you were King," the gardener continued, bleakly, going back to clipping the yellow rosebush with her enormous shears.

"You're the new gardener, I take it?" Caspian asked.

"Melancholy Fenlump, Highness," Melancholy said with a very low, exaggerated bow that reached almost to the webbed toes poking out of her fraying sandals. "Yes, that's it, go right ahead and twist your eyebrows, and tilt your nose, and screw up your handsome, kingly face like that; I quite agree. It's a loathsome name. You may call me Mel if you like, it makes some folks feel less queasy. Some folks not including me, naturally."

Caspian had heard that Marshwiggles were die-hard pessimists. He, however, preferred to see the goblet as half full. "Those are lovely roses," he said, as she dropped the next three thorny yellow flowers into her wide straw hat, which was slung over her shoulder by the hat-string, and being used as a basket.

"Oh, indeed, indeedy; if you hadn't any fingers," Mel replied, glancing forlornly at her own thorn-pricked hand. "Of course, that would be unpleasant too. But then, we Marshwiggles are used to unpleasantries, almost as much as we are used to having useless fingers like these, which are no good for anything."

"You're doing a nice job with those shears," Caspian pointed out.

"Nice job for the_ rosebush_, I wager," Mel scoffed cynically, kneeling down to reach some of the lower branches.

"It's a charming day, isn't it?" Caspian asked blithely. "Not a cloud in the sky, and just look at that sapphire blue!"

"Tis a blue day indeedy that has as little shade as this for a poor gardener."

"Come now, Maiden Mel,_ poor?_ You're employed at Cair Paravel, aren't you?

"I'll be dismissed within the week for my nastiness and ugliness," the Marshwiggle droned. "You_ do_ think I'm nasty and ugly, don't you, Highness?"

"Not a bit of it-" said Caspian, "-in fact, I daresay you're the prettiest Marshwiggle I've ever seen!"

"And the only?" Mel guessed, tossing a few long, green dreadlocks over her shoulder as she stood up.

"Er- why- no-"

"Ah. Aha," Mel interrupted, "my King is a terrible liar, and a horrible flatterer. There, you see? My too-long tongue has done it again, landed me straight in the sup, up to the ears. I've been rude to royalty- oh, that _figures_. It's the sack for me, or maybe the noose. Yes, probably that. I'm done for."

"What are you saying, my good Marshwiggle?" Caspian exclaimed in disbelief.

"That I'm_ not _good, same as the afternoon isn't either."

Caspian shrugged, and started walking off again. Marshwiggle logic was a mystery to him. "Good afternoon!" he repeated over his silken shoulder as he left.

"Highness!" Mel croaked.

Caspian paused underneath a trellis of delicate, creamy, trumpet-shaped, honeysuckle blossoms. "Yes?"

"I understand you only arrived at Cair Paravel but four days agone, so I just thought I had better inform you before my execution- that mazy garden path there leads only to the armory."

"True, true," said Caspian, ignoring the nonsensical part about execution. Really, what did she take him for, a tyrant?

"Why does your highness wish to go to the armory?"

"To collect a good sword, shield, bow, and maybe a shirt of maille."

"Why?"

"It's a secret."

"Why?"

"Because if I tell anyone, they'll probably talk me out of it."

"Why?"

"Because it's sort of barmy," Caspian sighed. He had no idea Marshwiggles were so... inquisitive.

"May I come?"

"To tell you truth, I don't even know where I'm going," Caspian confessed.

"Good," Mel droned. "I hate knowing where I'm going. It's so depressing. Takes the fun out of it. Spoils the ending."

"Did you just say,_ fun?"_ Caspian asked, awestruck.

"Yes, and I can spell it too. Just because Marshwiggles are serious doesn't mean we don't have fun. Just... _serious_ fun." Mel's gleaming orange eyes were fierce and gloomy. "Now," she said, with such gravity that it was almost comedic, "_are_ you going to let me be your faithful sidekick on this barmy quest into the unknown requiring a scretive trip to the armory, to atone for my careless rudeness, or _must_ I go alert somebody who will probably talk you out of the whole idea?"

"You know," Caspian noted wryly, "blackmail is just a_ bit _worse than rudeness." Before Mel could say anything even more gloomy in return, the High King smilingly added, "of course you can come. But there _will_ be danger."

"Undoubtably."

"You might get hurt-"

"Probably."

"-or even die."

"In all likelihood."

"And you still want to come?"

"Yep," said Mel, "It'll be fun."

Caspian was really starting to wonder about the Marshwiggle definition of 'fun'.


	4. Best Keep Your Eyes Open

-Chapter 4: Best Keep Your Eyes Open-

* * *

It was a brilliant sixth wedding party.

There were crystal glasses, and a Broadway singer, and a poodle that danced and did tricks in exchange for cookies, and a reception in a gazebo, and thrown rice and peach blossoms, and shrimp, and lemon cream cake, and raspberry cordial, and a dance in a room made entirely of fake amber- designed to mimic the famous Amber Room in Prussia that the Germans stole- and a huge, trumpet-shaped gramophone playing all the latest hits, as well as a little Mozart and Tchaikovsky.

"I didn't think you'd come," Bertram said, smiling his stiff, mysterious smile, and holding a hand out to Susan, for the next dance.

"Whyever not?" Susan asked, as she took the hand. It was dry and smooth. Her own hand was a little sweaty.

"Well, after _all,"_ said the blond, "when I told you I was inviting you, a perfect stranger, to my step-aunt's sixth wedding party, you probably took it for a prank, didn't you?"

"Not at all-" Susan said, but she stopped herself from adding, '-I get invited to lots of things- all the time.'

"Well I _am_ glad you came- it would've been frightfully boring otherwise, hearing the clergyman give the same old speech, watching my step-aunt kiss yet another chap just as sickeningly buff and brainless as the last five, eating the same sticky, overly-caloric cake; getting pelted with the same rice by the same flower girls with the same awful aim; the whole sad, same story."

"I doubt I shall make the party any less boring," Susan confessed modestly, "I'm not a very sparkling conversationalist."

"Don't shortchange yourself," Bertram admonished gently, "What about all those fantastically quaint stories you were telling me about theoretical journeys to alternate planes of existence, and the mind's tendency to play tricks on one?"

Susan shrugged, and smiled, and wished Bertram's eyes weren't so dark and toffee-colored. They reminded her far too much of the eyes of a certain boy she'd (theoretically) never met. Even if Bertram's eyes weren't half so enchanting as Caspian's.

What Susan _hadn't_ noticed, was that Bertram had been slowly dancing her out of the fake amber dance-room all the while.

"Goodness, we've danced clear into the hallway!" Susan realized, stifling a giggle.

"Precisely," Bertram said, while nudging the door to the dance floor shut with the toe of his overly-polished shoe. "And now, if you don't mind, Susan Pevensie, I am going to kiss you."

The word 'kiss' strongly brought back images of a night-haired boy, with toffee eyes, an excellent sword-arm, and a kind soul. "I do mind," she said quickly, turning her face away and attempting to twist out of Bertram's grasp.

But his left hand squeezed tighter around her waist, and his right hand squeezed tighter around her left hand, and he said, "Now is that nice? After I invited you to this lovely mansion, and had my step-aunt pay your trolley-fare and everything?"

Susan began to feel just a little unnerved. Bertram was, after all, a few years older and more than a few inches taller than she, and she really didn't know him. At all. "It's not that I don't like you, Bertram, it's just that- well, we only met last Tuesday, and don't you think this is a little fast- and- oh I _swear_, if you try that one more time than by _Aslan's_ mane, I'm going to _scream!" _she snapped, as she felt Bertram's thin lips brush against her neck.

"But considering the sound level of the conversations, toasts, and gramophone music, and the level of inebriety induced by _that _much champagne- I daresay no one will hear you. Theoretically." No doubt thinking himself very modern and romantic when he really wasn't at all, Bertram Torchley spun Susan in one last box-step, dipped her low as though they were doing the tango, pulled her dizzily close, and kissed-

-thin air.

The sudden absence of a Susan-sized counterweight sent Bertram toppling flat on his face. After a long moment of staring blankly at an orange ladybug creeping over the spotless porcelain tiles of his step-aunt's summer home, Bertram finally asked the question that had been on the tip of his tongue, before it had gotten coated with blood from him having accidentally bitten it upon falling flat.

"What in the world is Aslan?"

X~~~~~~~~~~X~~~~~~~~~~X

After the pinching sensation passed, Susan fell back-first against what felt like a rope hammock, but on closer inspection turned out to be the ratlines of a very strange, very old, very rickety ship.

With a dragon swooping straight toward it.

As she slipped down, Susan stuck her arms through the square holes in the ratlines, and held onto the coarse rigging-ropes for dear life. She dangled like a fish on a hook for a moment, and had to kick off her beaded, heeled party shoes to regain her footing.

_"Ow!"_ yelped a voice from below.

Glancing down quickly, Susan saw a sandy-haired faun holding two swords almost as long as he was tall. He was glaring up at her, while rubbing the space between his horns with his wrist. He was only a kid- younger than Edmund even- in faun years. Her party shoes were right beside the youngster.

Susan squeezed her eyes shut. Heights made her dizzy. So did the sight of a faun, which, theoretically, didn't exist. Before it even occurred to her to say 'Sorry!', Susan heard something crackling, and the smells of smoke and salt filled her nose. She peeked open one eye, and instantly wished she hadn't, as she saw the dragon sniff in a deep breath, and then set another sail on fire. Right above her head.

Susan started to panic. She contemplated jumping into the seawater, but wasn't sure what parts of the ship she might hit on the way down.

The blazing sail above her head fell off its mast, fluttering straight towards her...

Before Susan could finish guessing whether it would be second or third degree burns, and whether she'd have any hair and eyelashes left two minutes from now, she saw something metal darting through the air above her. The blazing sail didn't stand a chance, and fell to pieces, fluttering harmlessly down like bits of glowing confetti.

Her rescuer sheathed his sword, and bowed low. Which was sort of a strange sight, considering he was a large black mouse wearing a gold circlet with a scarlet feather in it around his ears, and dangling heroically from a swinging rope.

"Reepicheep!" Susan gasped in relief, shock, and disbelief. But mostly relief.

"My Queen, Susan the Gentle!" Reepicheep exclaimed, looking just as shocked, and not at all relieved.

The dragon swooped by again, and tried to snap Susan's head off. It missed, on account of Reepicheep swinging just like a trained acrobat on his rope, and flipping around the dragon's snout twice.

"Tie that loose end off!" the swordsmouse shouted down to the little faun Susan had dropped her shoes on.

Scurrying as fast as his hooves would take him, the faun obeyed. Just as he wound the knot around a belaying pin, the rope pulled taut, as the dragon tried to flap away. It found that it couldn't, due to the pesky rope wrapped around its jaws, and the pesky mouse that was tying more pesky ropes around its scaly exterior.

The dragon growled, and the sound came from somewhere deep in its throat, like a cat's purr. It yanked with all its considerable might to starboard (which you must never forget means the _right_ side). The ship, being, as mentioned, very old and very rickety, had no choice but to follow suit.

Susan felt the world become even more disorienting as she was tilted over, and her ears were filled with the sound of creaking timbers...

Water cascaded over her head from ear-to-ear, wrecking the product of two hours hairstyling and a night spent wearing hard, annoying curlers.

Susan gasped instinctively, and felt her throat fill with saltwater, splinters, and a few strands of seaweed. She was coughing uncontrollably for the next two minutes, and didn't even notice when a pair of thin, fuzzy arms grabbed her under the armpits, and hoisted her onto the underbelly scales of the dragon, who was floating belly-up in the waves.

Motionless, like a dead goldfish.

"Is the Queen all right, Grassroot?" asked Reepicheep, as he scuttled down the limp dragon's rope-wrapped neck to join the other two on its belly.

"Tolerably," Susan choked out. Gazing down at the orange and periwinkle scales beneath her, she asked_, "How_ did you-"

"Dragonsbane. Diluted. Just enough to make her dizzy, and they're almost tame in that state," Reepicheep explained. "But I am greatly troubled, your Majesty, for if _you_ are here, I fear my lord Caspian must be in dire peril."

Susan took a deep, salty breath. "I hate to tell you this, but- you don't exist. Not you, not you, and especially not _him,"_ she said, tapping the huge scales beneath her knees and torn nylons.

"Her," Reepicheep corrected.

"Her?" Susan repeated. "How can you tell?"

"Oh, this and that. Her mouth was open, for one. I jest, your majesty," Reepicheep added hastily, with a rodent smile, as he saw Susan stiffen indignantly. "But tell me, if _I_ don't exist, then who rescued you from the dragonfirey sail?"

"No one. There was no dragon. There was no fire. There was no sail. None of this exists. It's all in my head."

"And I suppose there was no _sea_ either, in which case maybe I should just shove you back in it!" snapped Grassroot, "unless there's no _you_ either."

"Grassroot! Mind your tongue! Remember that you speak to a Queen of Narnia!" Reepicheep hissed. "I apologize for my student, milady, he is still very young, and foolish."

"And after all," Susan continued, completely ignoring the Narnians, "even in the vastly improbable event that this _wasn't_ a dream or suchlike, I _still _couldn't be here. Aslan said so."

Reepicheep thought about this. Finally, he said, "Perhaps, the Great Lion meant you couldn't return of your own free will. Being _summoned_ is another story entirely. Ah, the dragon wakes," he added, as Susan felt herself being tipped over yet again.

She and the Narnians had to crawl quickly over the belly and onto the back, as the dragon slowly flopped right-side-up in the water, blinking her pale violet eyes dazedly.

Reepicheep scurried up the dragon's long neck, and gave her new rope muzzle a sharp tug.

Her wings flapped up magnificently out of the waves, scattering gem-like droplets in all directions. But mostly on Susan and Grassroot.

_Well, it's not like I could get any __wetter__,_ Susan reasoned crossly. But the next moment, all she could think about was holding onto the ropes tied around the dragon, which had leapt into the air at an alarming speed. Susan pressed her eyes shut tight. "Reepicheep, what are you _doing?"_ she demanded.

"Rescuing the King!"

"From _what?"_

"Who knows?" Grassroot replied, as their ride spun in a dizzying backwards loop.

"Do you even know _how_ to fly a dragon?" Susan snapped, peeking open one eye, just in time to see the swordsmouse grinning over his furry shoulder.

"No better time to learn!"

* * *

While Susan Pevensie was being nearly kissed by a spoiled rich boy who believed in astral projection and watched too much late-night television, Edmund Pevensie was dawdling.

More specifically, he was doing yo-yo stunts.

Most specifically, he was doing a variation on 'Helicopter', the 'Texas Star', and 'Shoot the Moon', with a strange girl's genuine Lumar #33 Junior Express yo-yo- a real collector's item- in the janitor's ironically messy room, in his sisters' posh 'Boarding and Finishing School for Young Ladies', at about 4:13 in the afternoon.

As Edmund lazily watched the Lumar spin over his head, the yellow tin and black lettering began to blur into a halo-like streak, and he felt something pinching at his fingers. His first thought was that the yo-yo string had snagged on something- maybe a broom handle, or bent nail, or one of the broken fan-blades dangling from the ceiling- but then he felt the pinching in his spine, in the back of his neck, his ears-

X~~~~~~~~~~X~~~~~~~~~~X

-His ears; which the very next moment were filled with warm, slimy, algae-flecked swamp-water.

The yo-yo fell, rapping him on the forehead. Edmund thrust his chin back and bobbed up, gasping for air. He swished his feet out beneath him, but couldn't feel anything solid- except for something cold and scaly brushing past his ankle.

There was the faint smell of juniper and clams, and the strong smell of watermint and rotting plant life. Edmund swiped the greenish water out of his eyes, just in time to see a stray lily-pad float past them. _I'm in a swamp, _he realized. A lace-winged fairy buzzed past his nose, disappearing into the forest of cattails. _in Narnia!_ Edmund added excitably.

Feeling himself sinking again, Edmund kicked off his shoes and peeled off his sweater, and started awkwardly paddling for the the nearest banks of the pond. Susan was a good swimmer- she'd won prizes at school- and it wasn't the first time Edmund wished _he'd_ practiced more.

At long last though, he felt his fingers curl around the cattail stalks, and felt the sticky silt seep through his socks as he sloshed and scrambled up the sloping bank, and onto dry land.

Well, _land _anyway.

"Hullo? Anyone?" Edmund called out, as he pried the string off his finger and shoved the yo-yo in his sopping pocket. _"HULLO?" _

There was no answer except for the cheeping of frogs and the humming of damselflies. So, picking a random direction, Edmund trudged off into the boggy, springy marshland.

Before long, Edmund spotted a distinctive shape poking up out of the vine-clogged underbrush. A Marshwiggle wig-wam!_ Finally I'll get some answers, _he thought, _even if they are depressing ones._

But all he found was more questions.

There was a plank nailed to the wig-wam door with the white, dripping words: 'OFF ON HOLIDAY WITH THE KING' freshly painted on it. _Ah, but which king? _Edmund wondered. For all he knew, a thousand years could have passed by since Caspian's reign.

_I guess some detective work is in order..._

_

* * *

_

While Susan Pevensie was being nearly kissed by a spoiled rich boy who believed in astral projection and watched too much late-night television, and Edmund Pevensie was dawdling, Peter Pevensie was finishing a fight.

He never started them these days, but he _always_ finished them.

The other boy was a champion mistaker.

His first mistake was chatting irreverently with his school chums about 'that hot Pevensie chick' he'd quite purposefully bumped into at the train stop- without first making sure 'that hot Pevensie chick's' older brother wasn't anywhere within earshot when he said it.

His second mistake was replying to the older brother's snarled threat of, "You shut up about my sister!" with the words,

"She's _your _sister? Seriously? Oh, right, there were four of you, right? You're the ones who got sent to bunk at that loony madcap professor's place during the Blitz, aren't you? My aunt works for ol' Kirke; he's a real headcase. A regular nutter. Oh yeah, Arnald Macready's the name, by the way. Yours?"

His third mistake was a failure to notice- neither the way Peter was glaring when Arnald insulted Professor Kirke, nor the motion of Peter's fist as it swung towards his jaw...

His fourth mistake was punching a King of Narnia. Even if Peter had punched first.

Peter spat out the blood from where his tooth had cut into his lip, where Arnald had hit it. The former High King's hand shot instinctively to his belt- until he remembered that his trusty sword Rhindon was back in Narnia. Old habits, and all. So instead, he just lunged at Arnald's neck.

_You're just __looking__ for excuses to fight! _Susan would've said, if she was here. But she _wasn't _here, and she _hadn't _heard what this jerk had said about her (thank heavens).

Peter's hands tightened around this jerk's striped school tie, his short fingernails dug into the unusually thick neck, and Arnald's eyes bulged.

But abruptly, two of Arnald's chums were grabbing Peter from behind, yanking his arms away from Arnald's neck, and pinning them behind Peter's back. Then, after gasping for air, Arnald started punching Peter, again, and again, and 'third time's the charm', and 'just to even the number', and 'once more for good measure', and so on and so forth.

You'd think one of the teachers would put a stop to this sort of thing, but the fact was, they were paid to _teach_, not to settle blood-feuds between squabbling teens. Besides, by some sad coincidence, it was the teachers' lunch break.

So Peter was on his own.

He was close to blacking out and had lost track of how many times Arnald had hit him, but that last punch must have been pretty spectacular, since it knocked Peter right out of the grip of the other two boys. He fell backwards-

X~~~~~~~~~~X~~~~~~~~~~X

-If there _was _a pinching sensation, Peter was too sore to feel it. His back slammed hard against something crumbly and stony, but oddly upright. Peter shoved his golden hair up out of his double black eyes, and squinted painfully through the swollen eyelids.

_Cair Paravel?_

Peter blinked again, and glanced down. He was slumped in his own, crumbling throne. In his roofless throne room. In Cair Paravel. In Narnia. Which was impossible. _Which means I must have blacked out, _Peter concluded._ Which _doesn't_ explain why I __hurt__ so darn much!_

Experimentally, he stood up, and dizzily limped over to the nearest wall. Leaning against it for support, he staggered towards the nearest doorway, inhaling sharply whenever he stumbled. _Now I know what a punching bag feels like, _he thought, slipping a finger under his school tie to loosen it a bit, so he could breathe easier.

At any rate, the sunlight flooding in through the holes in the ancient ceiling and dousing his shoulders in warmth, felt real enough.

"What year is it?" Peter asked the first person he came across in the mostly-empty castle halls. Whom happened to be a chinchilla-blue horse. A mare, actually.

"Twenty-three oh-three," whinnied the mare.

"Huh. Not even a year has passed since last time," Peter muttered.

"Last time?" echoed the mare. She probably didn't recognize him through the black eyes.

"Look, do you have any idea where Prince Caspian is?" Peter asked.

_"King _Caspian," the mare chided reproachfully.

"King. Right," Peter mumbled. He kept forgetting that. "Well, can I speak to him?"

"He's- ah... um... gone," the mare stammered, looking embarrassed, which was an odd expression to see on a horse.

_"Gone!"_

"But everyone's searching!" the mare added hastily.

"Are _you?"_

The mare shuffled her black hooves._ "Wellllll..." _she nickered hesitantly.

"You are now," said Peter. "Have you ever been ridden before?"

"Well, most certainly not by a _raccoon!" _the mare retorted primly, tossing her glossy mane.

"Guess again," Peter sighed, letting go of the wall and standing up straighter. "I'm Peter Pevensie. You may have read about me. And you are?"

The mare tilted her long head to the side so that she could see him better. Her huge, dark eye grew huger. "Jostaberry," she murmured softly, sinking down onto her front kneecaps, "your majesty."

* * *

While Susan Pevensie was being nearly kissed by a spoiled rich boy who believed in astral projection and watched too much late-night television, and Edmund Pevensie was dawdling, and Peter Pevensie was finishing a fight, Lucy Pevensie was actually _studying. _

Well, _mostly._

Lucy finished scribbling in the last curve of the umbrella prong, and stuck her pencil behind her ear. She smiled sadly at the tiny sketch in the corner of her homework page.

With a small sigh, she picked up her pink rubber eraser, and in just five flicks of her wrist, Tumnus was gone. Again. But you weren't allowed to doodle on homework pages, or else you got a lower grade, and that just wouldn't do. Lucy wanted so badly to do well in school.

She flipped back to where her other pencil was marking her place between the many pages of the heavy textbook. _History often repeats itself,_ she read at the bottom right edge of the page. _Oh, if only! _She'd give practically _anything_ to repeat her adventures in Narnia; to relive it all! If you stayed in this world too long, you started to forget that world, and vice-versa, but Lucy was determined not to forget _this_ time.

She shifted the pillow under her elbow into a more comfy position, and glanced wistfully out her half of the dorm window (Lucy got the top half, since she had the top bunk, and Susan got the bottom half). Lucy sighed again. It wasn't as if _wishing_ did any good, or searching for a way back, for that matter.

_'All the same, best keep your eyes open.' _ That's what Professor Digory Kirke had told Lucy once.

He was right.

Something swept over Lucy like a hundred bed-bugs biting and pinching her at once. She slapped frantically at her arms, legs and neck; accidentally tumbled off her bunkbed-

X~~~~~~~~~~X~~~~~~~~~~X

-and landed face-first in searing sand.

Coughing, Lucy stood up, brushed her skirt off, and squinted around in all directions.

Sand, just sand, nothing but sand.

No boarding school.

Lucy didn't want to deny it, or seek an explanation, or wonder if she was dreaming. She was _sure _this must be Narnia. She just _knew_ it. It_ felt _like Narnia. But where were the others, Peter, and Su, and Ed? Or Ed, at least, if Peter and Su couldn't come back?

_Now where in Narnia is there this much sand? _Lucy wondered. _Archenland? No, farther South... maybe... Calormene?_

Suddenly, Lucy saw something. It wasn't hard, since it was the only thing _to_ see. Wishing that there was more than just her stockings between her feet and the baking sand, Lucy began sinking up to her ankles or knees with every step, as she trudged over the dunes as fast possible, towards the unknown smudge on the orange horizon.

It was coming closer...


	5. Plagued by Locust

-Chapter 5: Plagued by Locust-

* * *

The thing about trouble, is that it _wants _to be found.

_Looking_ for it is overkill.

Caspian was sort of wishing he'd thought of this fact nine days ago, say, _before_ he'd gotten his head crammed in a sack, his arms chained above his head, and his horn (well, Susan's horn) stolen.

It happened like so:

_Day 1- Caspian the King and Mel the Marshwiggle quest out in search of dangers, perils, calamities, and quagmires. The questers find dragonflies, periwinkles, carnations, and quail aplenty, but no dangers, perils, calamities, or quagmires. Not one. Then, at roughly noon, they hear of an evil ogre's cave from a traveling sales-rabbit, and set off gleefully, only to find the cave abandoned, and half blocked-off with rubble. Bored and downcast, the questers make camp on the outskirts of Archenland._

_Day 2- The questers awaken with the muggy, slightly turnipy smell of 'The Argent Rabbit's Extraordinary Elixir of Slumber' in their nostrils, with the sight of thick, itchy burlap over their faces, and with the feel of aching armpits, chafed wrist-bones, and numb fingers. They hear creaking wheels, and feel planks rattling beneath their leather boots and cork-wood sandals, and so guess they are in some sort of wagon. With a roof, obviously. Painfully obviously. Who or what captured them is opened to debate._

_Day 3- The questers' captors remember that, in order to be 'taken alive' as they say their employer insists, the captives must be given food and water. To save time, the captors make soup, which counts as both. Someone with a snuffly nose and clawed, furry fingers, who smells oddly of peaches, unties the sacks, and rolls them up just high enough to ladle rusty spoonfuls of slimy, over-salted, oregano-spiced soup into the captive's mouths- but not high enough so that they can see the spooner. Afterwards, the sacks are re-tied. Once alone, Caspian and Mel plot their escape._

_Day 4- To save on the bother of making soup, the unknown captors shake a second, very heavy dosage of 'The Argent Rabbit's Extraordinary Elixir of Slumber' into the captive's morning soup-bowls._

_Day 9- Caspian awakens, groggy and mostly dead. He comes to the realization that l__ooking__ for trouble is, indeed, overkill. He calls out:_

"Mel?" His voice was an awful, scratchy croak, which Caspian could hardly believe came from his own (cracked) lips.

"You sound like a Marshwiggle," Mel droned through her sack. "Not to be insulting."

"Somehow," Caspian mused, "even though we've been tranced or charmed or whatnot all this time, I can still tell how many days it's been since we were trammeled, can't you?"

"Five, highness. And I can still taste the turnips."

Now that Mel mentioned it, Caspian did have to admit that, yes, his breath tasted annoyingly turnipy, and he was disgusted to find a thin layer of fungus growing behind his teeth. "Do you figure that queer sales-rabbit had anything to do with our capture?" Caspian pondered.

"No, I figure our captors are just more gullible then we when it comes to dodging rabbit sales-pitches," Mel replied.

"He _was _rather persuasive," Caspian admitted. "For a rabbit."

A moment of glum silence followed. Then Mel's muffled droning resumed. "Fun, eh? Adventurous, eh? Splendiferously exciting, eh?"

"Eh," Caspian echoed dryly. He honestly couldn't tell if Mel was being sarcastic or not.

"Look on the bright side- er- slightly less dark side, highness- at least _you're_ not double-jointed, so they can't practice knotwork on _your_ arms and legs. Gives a whole new meaning to being 'tied up', it does. I suspect you can't imagine how irritating it is to have your ankles twisted and tied around your neck, from behind. Not to insult your imagination. I expect I shall never eat a pretzel again, now that I know what it's like to be one."

"Sorry Mel," Caspian sighed, despondently resting his neck against his chains. "I'm sorry for getting you into this mess."

"You didn't. I volunteered."

"Actually, it was blackmail, but I digress."

Another glum pause.

"Well," Caspian added, "at least things can't get any w-"

"Oh, _don't_ highness! Tis a jinx! Anytime ye say things can't possibly get any worse, they invariably do. Law of Nature."

"So," Caspian reasoned, "if I said, 'at least thing can't get any better', would it have the opposite effect?"

"No, but someone might mistake you for a Marshwiggle. Especially with that sickly voice. You are somewhat tall and spindly too. Just saying. Not like you can slay me for rudeness if someone else beats you to it, yes?"

A tiny, rustling sound, like a baby kitten sneaking through a crevice, lodged in Caspian's ear. At first he thought it was just his imagination, or that pesky scratchy sack over his head, but then he heard a very definite creak on the wagon's floorboards.

"Goodness, what happened to you, you poor Marshwiggle?" asked a sweet, unnervingly familiar voice.

"Who's there?" asked Mel warily.

"I'm Lucy."

Those were the worst two words Caspian had heard in months. All of a sudden, he felt dizzy and nauseous, and his heart felt like lead. So, not only had his captors stolen Queen Susan's horn, but they'd actually _blown_ it! But why?

"You were right Mel," Caspian muttered hollowly, "Things just got worse."

Silence, more kittenish pattering, and then small hands were untying the sack from Caspian's neck.

"Caspian?" Lucy gasped, dropping the sack in pure shock.

"Shush!" warned Caspian quietly. He'd have preferred to just noiselessly hold up a finger to his lips, but his arms were still chained up.

"We got your call!" Lucy whispered fiercely over her shoulder, as she stood on her tiptoes, trying to inspect the chains clasping Caspian's wrists. "Or at least, I did. Not sure about the others... Anyway, don't fret, I'll rescue you!"

"What I wouldn't give to not see you here..." Caspian sighed bitterly.

"What, didn't you send for us? Lucy asked, in wide-eyed surprise.

"No. I meant to, fool that I am, but no," Caspian replied sullenly. His hands clenched into fists above the biting metal of his shackles. "Oh _why_ did I have to be so _bored?"_

"Whatever happened anyway?"

"Never mind Lucy, just go! Run! Escape! Don't bother about us!" Caspian insisted.

"Of course I'm going to bother about you!" Lucy hissed back, charmingly stubborn as always.

"No, I meant, don't bother about us; we've already got an escape plan, and Mel's already picked the lock of her first wrist-shackle with her foot, using the prongs of the gardening shears our captors forgot to take from her pocket, and she'll unchain me next any minute- now _go!"_

"To where, Tashbaan?" Lucy retorted. "I'll probably die gruesomely of either thirst, heatstroke, or insanity before I make it even halfway there in this beastly desert sand!"

"What? Where are we?" Caspian asked in bewilderment, as Lucy scurried over to go help the Marshwiggle untangle herself.

"Calormen, didn't you know?" Lucy whispered loudly back.

"Ah, my guess was right then," Mel crooned limpidly, "it _wasn't_ just faulty sleeping elixir that made my froggish lips so parched..."

Lucy glanced worriedly at Caspian. "Someone used sleeping potion on you two? Who? Why?"

"I haven't a notion," Caspian admitted, as Mel dizzily limped over to him with long, wobbly, Marshwiggle strides. "Obviously no magician though, if they couldn't even manage something as simple as a charmed sleep, and had to rely on elixirs."

Mel's spidery arms reached up over Caspian's head, and she jammed one of her shears' points into the keyhole of his left handcuff. Unlike Lucy, Mel did not need to stand on tiptoes by any means, even though Mel was still kinked over a bit at the spine from being 'tied up'.

"Hey, I've a thought!" Lucy whispered excitably, while glancing upwards. "Why don't we all hide- up there in that space between the rafters and the wagon-cloth- why don't we all climb up there, and then jump down and take your captors by surprise when they come to check on you?"

"Which is practically never," Mel drawled.

"Because one," said Caspian, "the rafters will probably break, and two, it's too risky. We should just escape, now, while we still have the ghost of a chance!"

"To _where?"_ Lucy repeated.

"Anywhere but here," Caspian answered firmly.

"But I've been chasing your caravan across this horrid sand for _hours,"_ Lucy complained, "and I'm so sun-burnt my entire face will probably peel off by this time tomorrow! Besides, don't you even want to find out _who _captured you, and _why?"_

He did. But not at the expense of Lucy's safety. The moment after Mel freed his other wrist, Caspian took Lucy's much daintier wrist between his numb fingers, and whispered, "Let's go."

Caspian staggered painfully towards the wagon door, embarrassed by the fact that he kept tripping over his own feet, and had to lean on Lucy for support.

Before he reached the knob, the door slammed brutally into his nose, banging him backwards. He lost his grip on Lucy, landed on his aching spine, and blinked dizzily as he was hauled to his feet by long-nailed hands.

A giant boa constrictor, with a poisonous green sheen on its ebony scales, slithered in through the swaying door next, followed by a male Naiad toting a heavy brass crossbow, and a scaly, rat-tailed creature Caspian couldn't quite identify.

"You're an armadillo!" Lucy exclaimed to the creature, which promptly grabbed her by the collar.

"Aye, so?" retorted the armadillo challengingly.

"But- you're all Narnians, aren't you?" Lucy asked in puzzlement. "Why are you doing this? Don't you recognize your king?"

The armadillo threw a confused glance to whoever was pinning Caspian's arms behind his back.

"Bring her too," said a female voice, a _grey_ voice, beside Caspian's ear.

Mel was putting up an admirable attack against the boa with her shears, but her twiggy limbs were no match for the boa's muscular coils, and it overpowered her effortlessly.

"I don't suppose we get any answers yet?" Caspian asked the wer-wolf over his shoulder, who he'd have recognized even if she hadn't spoken in that grey voice. She still smelt of peaches and oregano, which wasn't an easy smell to forget. Her grip was inhumanly strong, and her nails were long and sharp even in her present human form. They dug cruelly into the soft inner joints of Caspian's elbows.

"I guess not," he concluded dryly, as the wer-wolf tied his wrists up tautly.

It was only then that he realized that the caravan wheels had stopped creaking quite a while ago.

Caspian, Mel, and Lucy were herded out of the parked wagon, through the blinding sun and windblown sand, and finally, through the embellished flaps of a magnificent tent.

Then they were thrown face-first to the sands.

Brushing his sandy chin off on his shoulder (since his hands were still bound), Caspian peered up dizzily. He saw wooden-lathed boots with curved, pointy toes, resting on a sumptuous gold-and-green stitched, tasseled cushion. Peering up a bit further, Caspian saw the outlandishly-dressed Calormene lord, or Tarkaan, whom the twisty boots belonged to, who was perched cross-legged on the cushion.

Caspian could tell he was a Tarkaan (or at least wished to look like one) because his dark hair was died crimson, and gleamed with frankincense-scented oil. The Calormene wore a green-and-orange striped tunic with frogging clasps down the front, over a fluted white shirt with gold buttons; and baggy, blue, satin trousers. Around his trim waist was tied a wide scarlet sash, which drooped off the sides of the cushion. Tucked into the sash, was Susan's horn, white and gleaming. On his head was wrapped a black turban, cinched in the front with a gold grasshopper pin. Caspian guessed the Tarkaan was about his age, though it was hard to tell with that sharp, stony face.

When the Tarkaan spoke, the words were musical, but the voice was cruel. "Are you High King of the lands and demesne of Narnia and Telmarine, Caspian Tenth, Lord of the Lonely Isles and Master of Cair Paravel?"

Caspian had sense enough to not answer right away.

The Tarkaan's eyes slid haughtily down to where Caspian lay sprawled on the sand, but the Tarkaan's head never lowered an inch. You'd think it was held up by an invisible string. "The very fact you have not, as yet, denied you are he, confirms it is so," the Tarkaan deduced.

"To what purpose would denial serve?" Caspian replied. "If you didn't believe my denial, you'd say I was this Caspian fellow no matter what I said to the contrary, and you are obviously his enemy. If you _did _believe my denial, I'd be of no further use to you, and from what I've heard of Calormen custom, I can well guess what my fate would be _then_."

"Aptly spoken, kingling, but it availeth you little," scoffed the Tarkaan. "From the mouths of your own companions you are betrayed, and even this vagabond stowaway-child was heard to style you by the appellation 'Caspian'."

"So what?" snapped Lucy hotly, after spitting out most of the sand between her teeth. "'Caspian' has been a kingly name for generations in Telmar! Probably a third of all Telmarine mothers name one of their sons Caspian!"

"Actually," Caspian muttered back to Lucy, "it's a royalty-exclusive name, but thanks anyway."

"There is no doubt, Locust," the wer-wolf behind Caspian purred. Reaching down abruptly, she seized Caspian's black hair, and yanked him up off the sand and onto his knees. "I inspected him whilst he was charmed asleep..." she said, as she tore her claw-like nails through Caspian's indigo shirt, ripping off a long swathe of silk at the shoulder. "The mark is there," she added, tracing her cold nails over the red-white welt on Caspian's tanned skin. "Scars inflicted by wer-wolves never fade."

Then she shoved him back down to the gritty sand.

"Oh right, _about _that," murmured Lucy beside Caspian's ear, "How come _you _didn't turn into a wer-wolf? I mean, being bitten and all."

"I expect it was since he was only half wer-wolf when he bit me," Caspian whispered back in the same almost silent tone. "He'd been changing back into a man, do you remember?"

"Oh. Right."

"He was my brother," growled the wer-wolf, who had excellent ears.

"As in, figuratively, such as your brother in some wer-wolf brotherhood cult, or literally your brother?" Caspian asked, craning his neck to get his first good look at the wer-wolf. _Ratty black hair, bold cheekbones, plain brown-leather dress with lots of buckles in front-_

"My blood-brother."

Caspian wasn't _quite_ sure what that meant in wer-wolf terms. _-tall, slouching posture, sarcastic blue eyes-_

Realizing he was staring, the wer-wolf kicked him sharply in the side.

_-and iron-toed boots,_ Caspian mentally concluded.

"It is enough," commanded the Tarkaan- Locust. "The camels have had rest sufficient." Pulling out a small hourglass from somewhere inside his striped tunic, Locust added, "We make for Miraz's castle ere the sands of this hourglass fall through."

"Miraz's castle?" Caspian echoed blankly. "Why?"

"The White Lady shall pay many countless crescents for such an one as you... and, _she_," Locust added, as his cold eyes slid toward Lucy.

Lucy shared a shocked glance with Caspian, and even Mel's normally vapid face looked disturbed.

"The White L- The _White Witch_?" Caspian stammered. "You're planning to summon her back?"

"No, fool," the wer-wolf purred, "we already _have_. We drew the ancient circle and stoked the blue fire... just as my brother would have had you not... oh yes, _killed_ him."

"Yet the White Lady is not the only fable we've summoned," said Locust, as he stroked the white horn tucked in his sash.

By this point, Caspian's stomach had twisted into such a terrible knot, that he was sure he'd never untangle it. It wasn't just because he'd been drugged with cheap, turnip-flavored sleeping elixir and hadn't eaten in five days either.

"As to our stowaway..." Locust continued, standing up and stepping towards Lucy. He stooped down and grabbed her by the chin, forcing her to look up into his cruel eyes. "A girl so young, of such fairness, whom just _happens_ to be a friend of King Caspian, found staging a foolhardy escape after maundering alone in the midst of the Calormen desert? Most... _unusual."_

"I'm an Archenland lass, who... simply lost her way- in the wilds," said Lucy in the awkward tone of someone who's really never been any good at lying.

"Or perhaps, Lucy Pevensie, you've simply developed an abhorrent habit of lying. Tell me," Locust added in a dangerously soft tone, "how does it feel to be a child again? So small and insignificant?"

Lucy summoned up a remarkably clueless frown, and said meekly, "Who's Lucy Pevensie?"

"Everybody is so _forgetful_ today," sighed Locust, carelessly whisking away and letting Lucy thump chin-first back to the sand.

"Shall I charm their eyes to slumber again, Locust?" asked the wer-wolf.

"Nay. We must shew our captives the civility royalty deserves." Locust's scarlet-dyed mustache curled up at the corner, as he added, "torture them."

_"What?"_ gasped Lucy.

"That figures," muttered Mel.

"But you haven't even asked us any questions, besides who we are!" protested Caspian. "What do you even want to know?"

"How much you scream," Locust answered, smirking deviously. "Oh yes, and the whereabouts of the other three Narnian royals would also be most fascinating."


	6. Crossing Over

-Chapter 6: Crossing Over-

* * *

"What was that?" Batty gasped.

Edmund rolled his eyes, and clung on tighter to to the tan-flecked grey feathers. "The _sky_," he shouted sarcastically through the wind-lash, "it's falling."

"Mercy me!" Batty gasped, and Edmund could actually _feel_ the shiver running down the skittish owl's hollow spine, vibrating through his own damp school shirt. "Where? How big are the pieces? Are they sharp? Or is it all coming down in one great and terrible block that will crush our every bone?"

"My mistake, it was just a bat," Edmund sighed.

"Mercy!"

"Relax, it was just a little regular bat, not even a talking beast," Edmund explained tiredly.

"Those are the worst! You can't even _reason_ with them!"

"Besides, it was probably only shrieking cause it thought you'd fly into it. You _do_ sort of have a bad habit of that."

"That tree-branch snuck up on me!" Batty insisted. "And that weathervane was at a practically invisible slant! And that windmill blade wasn't my fault! Oh, I can't abide bats!"

"But you're named 'Batty'," Edmund sensibly pointed out.

"That's only because I'm blind as a bat after nightfall!"

"Are you sure they didn't just name you 'Batty' because they thought you were odd? And how can you be blind as a bat? First off, bats aren't blind, and furthermore, owls have binocular vision!"

"Not I!" the owl hooted.

"Ever considered spectacles?"

"Oh, mercy no! Oh, spectacle scare me!"

Edmund's dark eyes rolled again. "Oh come_ on_, how could anyone be scared of specs?"

"Consider," said the owl, "what if one were wearing specs, and crashed into something, and the specs shattered, and shards of glass punctured one's eyes, and it hurt excruciatingly, and one's eyes got infected, and had to be amputated before the infection spread to one's brain, and one had to wear two eye-patches or an oversized falcon's hood for the rest of one's life?"

"Tell me again why you think this Marshwiggle gal-"

"Melancholy Fenlump."

"-Right, her- is in danger? I mean, dash it, the sign said 'OFF ON HOLIDAY'."

"But that's just it!" the owl argued plaintively. "Melancholy's never gone on holiday! Never _ever! _Not in her life! Not in _my_ life! I should know, being her nearest neighbor."

"So?" said Edmund. "Maybe she decided to try something new."

"Oh, Melancholy, poor Melancholy! She could be anywhere!"

"But not _everywhere_," Edmund countered, "and not likely in this circle we've been flying in for the past half-hour either. Now- and this does make me sound dreadfully like Susan- but, we should think logically. Where would Caspian most likely go on holiday?"

"Do you suppose Mel's been eaten?"

"No, I do _not _suppose Mel's been eaten, now could you just _concentrate?"_

Batty must have been concentrating way too hard, because the very next minute, he collided beak-first with a sprite.

Angrily, the tumbling sprite somersaulted backwards through the air, then made a beeline for whatever knocked into her, and started tearing at Edmund's wind-mussed black hair.

"Hey, hey, _ow!" _Edmund said, but he didn't dare risk letting go of the owl feathers, not even with one hand, to untangle the sprite's needly limbs from his hair. "My friend Batty didn't mean to bowl you over like that, he - ow!- he's just a bit nearsighted, that's all! Would you just- ow! Now look here, I- hey! Could we just talk for a min- ow! Look, as a King of Narnia, Duke of the Lantern Waste, Count of the Western March, and Knight of the Noble Order of the Table, I command and bid you to _cut it out!" _

The pain ceased, there was a flapping noise, and then Edmund saw the sprite perch right in front of his nose, on Batty's ruffled neck. She was glaring suspiciously.

"Oh, it's on me! Oh, it prickles! Oh, what shall I do-hoo?" Batty hooted edgily.

"Keep quiet and keep flying, I've got it sorted," Edmund snapped back. "Now, sprite," he began, "first off, it _was_ an accident, so quit bristling."

The sprite folded her quivering orange wings neatly behind her back, but her large, buggy eyes remained narrowed.

"Better," said Edmund. "Next off, have you seen any sign or heard any report of King Caspian in the past few days since he went missing? He's traveling with a Marshwiggle named Melancholy Fern- er, Fell- Far-"

"Fenlump," Batty interjected helpfully.

"-Melancholy Fenlump," Edmund concluded.

The sprite's insectoid eyes dilated, and she began performing rapid motions with her tiny hands.

Edmund struggled to make out the words, since it had been quite some time since he'd seen or used Spritish sign language. Many sprites _could_ talk vocally, of course- they just _chose_ not to, preferring to keep their dignity intact by not sounding squeaky to larger persons.

_Why should you- no wait, I-_ Edmund translated in his head, _care something, something, where so-called new king spends his- _"Tournaments?" Edmund said aloud.

The sprite shook her head fiercely, and crossed her ring fingers over her thumbs.

"Oh, holidays, right," said Edmund. " Well because he's the _King_ of course!"

_What variety of king swims- no, walks? on holiday- when shadowy- no, dark?- hexes- er, magic- is at his doorknob, and stone something, something, cat, something, revenge, old riverside castle, snowy-_ "Um, slow down, could you repeat that?" Edmund asked dizzily.

Rolling her buggy eyes, the sprite slowly spelled out the words, _'snow', 'witch', 'you', 'dolt'._

"The White Witch!" Edmund exclaimed in a whisper. "But she's dead, Peter and Aslan, they killed her at the Battle of Beruna!"

_Tell that to my best friend- only he shan't hear- he's statuary,_ the sprite said very slowly and deliberately with her nimble fingers.

"Turned to stone?" Edmund said hollowly.

The sprite nodded, but after a few more more difficult hand-signs, she lost interest in Edmund and fluttered off. Sprites had such short attention spans.

"Fly to Miraz's castle," Edmund told Batty stiffly.

"Caspian's dead uncle's castle?" Batty asked nervously, "Why, what did that sprite say? Is that where Melancholy and the king are?"

"We've more important stuff to do than tracking down a missing Marshwiggle and king right now..." Edmund answered grimly.

"Like what?"

"Never mind."

"But what about Mel?" Batty whined.

"I'm sure she's fine."

"Are you _sure_ you're sure she's fine?"

"Sure."

"Are you really?"

"Yep, really sure," Edmund replied irritably, in a tone just shy of a growl.

"No, I mean, are you _really_ King Edmund?"

"Yep."

There was a long, silent moment. Then Batty said, quiveringly, "If _you're_ back, Narnia must be in some way endangered..."

"Or some prankster just blew Su's horn for the fun of it," Edmund suggested, trying to calm the owl.

"You mentioned the words 'white' and 'witch' in close proximity just now..."

"Look, Batty," said Edmund, "if I tell you what's really up, you'll get spooked, and when you're spooked you don't fly straight, and when you don't fly straight, you hit into things, and we really haven't any more time to lose. You know what they say, 'ignorance is bliss'."

"For being bliss, it feels an awful lot like torture, sighed Batty, but thankfully he didn't ask any more questions.

It should have been a half-hour flight.

But nine hours later, the moon had replaced the sun in the foggy sky, and Edmund and Batty still hadn't found Miraz's castle. Matters got worse when the dragon started chasing them.

"Have we lost it yet?" Batty gasped.

"Edmund glanced over his shoulder, but all he saw were blotchy, foggy, blue-black clouds.

"No clue!" Edmund hissed back. "It could be five or five hundred feet away in this dismal fog, and we'd never know! Just keep flying!"

The owl glanced fearfully behind himself with his astoundingly flexible neck. Of course, this meant Batty wasn't looking in front of him, so he missed seeing the rather largish tree-branch...

"Ow..." Edmund moaned, staring disorientedly up at the colorful cloth which was lumpily framing the night sky.

_"Ow!"_ echoed the mass of feathers beneath him, which had apparently broken his fall, and possibly a few bones as well.

"You all right, Batty?" Edmund asked dazedly, after coughing on some of the fluttering splinters.

"Is that a rhetorical question?" Batty moaned.

"Well, this is frustraneous," mumbled a dour, muffled voice from beneath the the taut fabric Edmund and Batty had plunged onto, "On top of being tied into a pretzel, bedarned if I haven't now been squashed to a jelly too..."

"Melancholy, is that you-hoo?" hooted Batty in unconcealed delight.

"Yes. Batty, is that you?"

"Yes, yes!"

"What a nasty coincidence..." Mel droned. "Fly off, Batty!"

"Why?"

"For one, you're squashing me to a jelly; for two, you must go rally loyalists to the king! Get help! Fly!"

"But-"

_"FLY!"_

"Where have we landed?" Edmund asked the lump beneath Batty, while trying to roll off the owl. But before Edmund could even manage to untwist the arm he'd fallen on from behind his back, he saw five black claws slice through the pattern of yellow-leafed blood oranges on the coarse fabric beside his cheek.

"In trouble," answered a raspy, female voice, as Edmund jolted out into a cramped, wagon box.

He blinked. Half of the roof-cloth was still caved in under Batty's weight, rafters littered the floorboards, the air smelt strongly of oregano and something fruity, Caspian was wearing an odd iron gauntlet, and was locked in the coils of a massive boa holding a lantern curled in it's tail, Lucy was wrapped in chains and dangling from her ankles in the corner, and- wait...

"Lu?" Edmund exclaimed in total disbelief.

"Run, Edmund!" Lu yelped.

_"Fly,_ Batty!" Melancholy's muffled voice added sharply.

"What do you mean, _run?" _Edmund demanded, as he heard awkward owl wings flapping away. "Run where? Why? What is-"

Before he could finish his question, Edmund felt the air to his lungs being cut off, as he was hefted roughly up off the floor, and off his feet too, by an impressively tall, black-clawed wer-wolf. Wearing a dress. Before Edmund could decide whether to laugh or shudder, the wer-wolf grasping his collar crooned,

"Edmund, said she? Ah, and there's even a family resemblance... Locust shall be pleased."

"Locust- who?" Edmund choked out. "And who- a-are you? And wha- what's the i- dea?"

"Questions are not your right here," answered the wer-wolf in her peculiarly feminine snarl.

"Oh _honestly, _Ed," Lu sighed exasperatedly.

"Well you didn't- exactly s-say 'wer-wolf's behind, you', now- did you?" Edmund retorted sourly.

"Where are your two elder siblings, Edmund?"

"Don't tell, Ed!" Lu yelped.

_"Where?"_ snarled the wer-wolf.

"No- where," Edmund answered in a strangled gasp.

"Explain."

"Nowhere me- meaning no-where in- th-this... world!"

"You know, I've this bad habit of ripping out the throats of liars," the wer-wolf purred through her bristly whiskers.

"Don't fret Ed, she won't _really_ rip out you throat; you're worth more to her alive!" said Lu brightly.

_Gee, thanks for the memo,_ Edmund thought sarcastically.

"True," said the wer-wolf, but I _could _slit your ears... since they obviously don't work right anyway..." Her black claws slid from his neck up to one of his ears as she spoke.

"Leave him be, he's telling the truth!" snapped Lu.

Then, out of the blue, the wagon-cart was doused in dragonfire.

_"DRAGON!" _someone from the next cart over howled, quite superfluously.

The caravan wood was remarkably dry after being subjected to the Calormen desert sun, so it caught fire effortlessly under the potent, white-hot dragonfire.

The caravan wheels started rattling loudly as the frightened camels bolted. As the the wagon-cloth and planks began to crackle, the boa's slitted eyes dilated. It promptly dropped Caspian and the lantern, darted wildly to the door, shoved open the bolt, and slid out into the night.

"Coward!" the wer-wolf barked as the last green-black scales vanished, "Save your own skin first, would you? Get back here, you limbless, rat-eating, weevil-faced, excuse for a-"

Her insults were cut off by pounding vibrations and jostled limbs, as something huge banged into the side of the caravan. Since the roof-cloth was mostly cinders, Edmund could easily see, even through his hazy vision, that the 'something huge' was a dragon. Unsurprisingly, it was the same one that had been chasing him and Batty.

The camels bolted faster, and Caspian's limp body tumbled out the open, swinging door before anyone could react. The next moment, the dragon swooped by and head-butted the caravan again, bowling it all the way over, and throwing Edmund out of the wer-wolf's grasp.

Edmund coughed. Just when he could breathe again, his lungs were filled with smoke. Just when his vision wasn't blacking out, all he could _see _was smoke.

Abruptly, the wer-wolf grabbed him by the arm, and shoved him out through the cindering remnants of the roof, which was now on its side, since they'd tumbled over.

_"Edmund!"_ Lu yelped fearfully, reminding him that she was still chained up.

"I'm coming, Lu!" Edmund shouted back, while trying to battle his way through the searing smoke.

But the wer-wolf snarlingly shoved him away again, saying, "Stand back from the flames, fool! You're worth thrice as much to us alive!"

"But-"

_"I'll _unchain your sister! _You_ go tell that Naiad dunce to conjure up some water to douse these flames!"

Edmund found himself nodding rapidly, and then sprinting out of the smoke.

By the light of the flaming caravan, he saw that they'd crashed on mossy terrain, littered with hulking rocks and a few scattered trees. Everyone in the caravan (apart from the wer-wolf, Lu, and Mel) had already evacuated, and from the shabby weapons and surly scowls, Edmund assumed they were outlaws. It took him a minute to find the face he was looking for amid the crowd.

"Excuse me," Edmund coughed, tapping the Naiad on the shoulder.

"Stow it, kid," the Naiad growled haughtily, while loading another bolt into his brass crossbow.

"But the wer-wolf said-"

_"I_ said stow it!" the Naiad snapped, shoving Edmund roughly backwards; right into the clutches of a helmeted goblin. "Jangulus, get over here and help me shoot this terror!" the Naiad shouted at another, taller, archer in the crowd, before firing off his crossbow bolt at the dragon.

The bolt hit. The dragon screeched and dipped back out of the fog in a rage, searching with murderous reptilian eyes for whoever was responsible for the nasty new gash in her wing. Picking the wrong target, she seized the head of the archer named Jangulus between her teeth, then shot back up into the fog, viciously tearing at Jangulus' body with her claws.

Edmund winced and looked away, trying to ignore the screams- until he saw a body plunge from the sky, and land right on top of the Naiad, knocking him down. But it wasn't Jangulus' body.

_"Su!" _exclaimed Edmund in total, absolute, disbelief.

"Ow... stupid- dragon..." Susan groaned as she pried herself up to her feet, while rubbing her elbow. Her peachy party dress looked painfully out of place amid all the smoke and outlaws. Susan blinked, caught sight of Edmund, then caught sight of the unconscious Naiad's brass crossbow beside her ankle, and picked it up.

"Drop him!" she ordered, pointing the crossbow at the goblin holding Edmund.

The goblin sneered, stuck his warty tongue out at her, and moved its steel-capped dagger nails to Edmund's throat.

Then the dragon swooped by again, and another body fell, which _also_ wasn't the unfortunate Jangulus. Rather, it was a tawny faun, holding two long swords. The points of the swords hit the mossy ground first, and the faun absorbed the shock up through his shaggy arms, then swung gracefully down onto his hoofs.

From the sky, an oddly _rodent_ voice shouted down, "By the new tail bestowed on me by Aslan himself, I shall not desert you, highnesses! I shall return! I shall flay your enemies! I shall-"

The dragon flew up again, drowning out the rest of the words.

"Was that _Reepicheep?" _Edmund asked Susan incredulously, ignoring the grimy goblin completely. "And more importantly, how did _you_ get here?"

"Well you see," said Su, "there was this owl, and the dashed dragon wouldn't quit chasing it- the dragonsbane wore off, you know- and then once she caught it, Reep saved it from getting devoured- the owl that is- and it told us you and some Marshwiggle were in trouble down here, so I sent it to fetch re-enforcements, and then-"

"No," Edmund cut in, "I _mean_, how'd you get _here_, to _Narnia_, when Aslan said you couldn't anymore?"

"Well, frankly, I expect I shall wake up any minute now."

_That 'dream' nonsense again?_ Edmund thought irritably. Aloud, he said, "Yeah, well, thanks a trillion for so _strategically_ falling on the only thing that could put out the fire!"

"Why, what's in that caravan worth saving?"

_"Lucy,_ for one!"

"Well why didn't you _say_ so?" Su snapped, charging off towards the caravan inferno. But before she reached it, she tripped over a limp body, whose face Edmund couldn't see.

"Caspian!" Su gasped.

As she stumbled back to her feet, Caspian moaned softly, which proved he wasn't dead, at least. "I've truly flunked this High Kingship business," he groused feebly.

"Terrible botch job," Su agreed ironically.

"_Hello_, _Lucy_? _Fire?" _Edmund reminded loudly.

"Oh- right- Grassroot, quit showing off your sword prowess, and get over here and help Caspian!" Su called over to the faun, who was locked in double-bladed combat with a panther, an armadillo, and a man wearing Telmarine armor.

The faun nodded, and wove through the crowd toward Caspian, while Su hurried on toward the flames.

Squinting through the smoke, Edmund saw the wer-wolf climbing out of the cindering cart with Lucy slung over her shoulder. The long chain dangling from Lu's ankle was broken. _Broken_, not unlocked. Wer-wolves really were scarily strong.

"Which addle-skull, lost, the keys?" the wer-wolf wheezed venomously.

"Drop her!" Su ordered, aiming the crossbow at the wer-wolf.

"Susan, is that you?" asked Lu, straining to catch a glance of her older sister over the wer-wolf's shoulder.

"Don't shoot, fool!" Edmund heard a cruel voice hiss. Craning his neck as much as he could with the goblin's metal-capped claws poking against it, Edmund caught sight of an eccentric-looking, turban-wearing, Calormene redhead, who was glaring at a dwarfish archer.

The dwarf struggled to wrestle its longbow out of the redhead's grip, saying, "But, Locust-"

"Can you not see she is the fourth?" the redhead hissed. His dark eyes glinted greedily in the crackling firelight.

_Oh, so __he's__ Locust, is he?_ Edmund thought. Inspired with a sudden notion, Edmund subtly reached into his pocket. His quivering fingers curled around the warm, painted tin of the Lumar #33 Junior Express, and his ring finger slipped smoothly into the little looped end of the string.

Three seconds later, the goblin was howling and holding his crooked, throbbing nose, while Edmund was running like mad behind the cover of one of the larger boulder clusters, his yo-yo bouncing crazily behind him.

Suppressing the urge to gasp for breath, Edmund flattened himself into a nook between two boulders, shutting his eyes so that the firelight wouldn't glint of them and give him away. The dewy moss grew on the rocks too, and Edmund could feel it soaking through the back of his school shirt.

He waited until the goblin's clumsy footsteps and rattling armor had faded several yards way, before peeking open an eye, creeping out of the nook, and skulking along the shady side of the boulder cluster in the other direction.

He peeked up once, dropped back down, and snuck along another ten feet, before reemerging next to a cave right behind Locust. Slowly and silently, Edmund rolled the yo-yo out a few more inches... Then he threw the string over Locust's turban with snake-strike speed. Edmund immediately pulled his improvised strangle-cord tight around the Calormene's neck.

Over Locust's green-and-orange-striped tunic, Edmund caught sight of Lucy and Susan, who had re-grouped with Caspian, who seemed to have fainted again, and the faun, who was busy fending off the wer-wolf.

"Hey! Over here!" Edmund called out, trying not to choke on the suffocatingly strong smell of frankincense.

Noticing him, Lu nodded, and said something to the faun, who broke off his attack, stuck both swords into the sheaths belted onto his back, and grabbed Caspian's arm, while Lu grabbed the other. Su covered their escape, slowly stepping backwards while keeping the crossbow aimed at the wer-wolf.

As soon as Caspian had been safely dragged through the mouth of the cave, Su swung the crossbow around, aiming at Locust.

This didn't seem to faze the outlaws, who continued to advance.

"One more step, and your leader dies!" Su snapped loudly, so that everyone would hear her over the voracious flames.

"Hey, if you've forgotten _Narnia_, Su, should you really be trusting your _aim_ right now?" Edmund called out through clenched teeth, as he tried to tighten his hold on the slippery yo-yo string. Locust had managed to wedge a few fingers between the string and his neck, and a loose flap of the black turban had also gotten caught there, so the strangulation wasn't going so spiffy. Not to mention, Locust kept yanking Edmund's hair with his other hand, and elbowing him in the ribs. Hard.

"Didn't you hear? I _said_, I'll _shoot!"_ Su hollered.

"So what?" said the goblin.

"It'd just be one less share of the White Witch's loot to go around," added the panther.

"More for the rest of us!" said the armadillo.

"Oh, so_ that's _what you're after?" said Su, strolling closer to Locust, until the crossbow bolt was only four feet from his jaw.

Then she shifted the crossbow to Edmund.

"Susan!" gasped Lu.

"Hey, what's the idea?" demanded Edmund, whose fingers were feeling rather lacerated by the yo-yo-string.

"If I shoot _him_, there'll be a _lot _less loot to go around, won't there?" Su challengingly asked the outlaws.

Edmund couldn't believe he was hearing this._ "Su!" _he protested.

She glanced carelessly back at him, and said, "It's not like you're anything but a figment of my imagination anyway."

"Yeah," Edmund retorted, "a figment of your imagination who'd very much hate getting a three-inch wide crossbow bolt shot through his skull, thanks all the same!"

"Oh, _do_ stop _whining_, Ed," Su sighed primly.

"It's her brother," the wer-wolf growled softly, to the outlaws behind her. "She's bluffing."

"You're guessing." Su countered calmly. "He's a traitor, who sold us out to the Snow Witch once before- who's to say say he hasn't done it again?"

"But Su-" Edmund stammered, "-how could I _possibly_- I mean, I just _got _here, and- well- dash it, this _is _a bit thick-"

_"Move!" _Su ordered.

Obediently and irritably, Edmund started dragging the slightly weakened and gasping Calormene backwards into the dank, mossy cave.

"Don't follow us," Su warned the outlaws. Then she trailed after Edmund into the blackness.

Apart from Locust's gasps and the clatter of Lu's chain across the cave floor as they retreated deeper in, it was quiet for the next half-minute.

Finally, Edmund said, "You... _were_ just bluffing, right Su?" The echoes threw his words around the cave like a ping-pong ball.

"Of _course_ I was _bluffing_, Ed! Honestly!" Su snapped, giving him a sisterly smack on the ear. Trying to, anyway.

"...That was me," the faun stated flatly.

"Sorry," Su grumbled.

"Ow! You're _always_ stepping on my foot, Ed!" Lu complained. "Why are are we going farther in?"

"There might be a back way out," Su answered quietly.

Edmund's socked foot hit on something that felt like glass, and he stumbled forward, wishing, for the first time, that he hadn't kicked off his shoes back in that swamp.

He also wished that he hadn't let go of the yo-yo string just now.

Long fingers clenched around his wrist, twisted it painfully, then threw him to the sandy floor. Curly-toed, wooden-lathed boots kicked him viciously in the ribs.

"What's going on?" Su demanded. "Ow, let go of my hair!"

"Oh, _Ed_, you didn't let the prisoner escape, did you?" Lu hissed.

Edmund didn't answer, due to the fact that, in payback, Locust was now strangling _him._

The faun tripped over Edmund's foot, Lu tripped over the faun, and the next few moments were a tangled mess of arms, legs, necks, hooves, and elbows.

It took another moment for all of the scufflers to realize that they'd tumbled into a strange room cluttered with overturned crates, corked bottles filled with amber-hued liquid, and broken glass.

But the strangest bit was, the room was lit by a square of sunlight.

And it was the middle of the night.

Before anyone could say, 'Where are we?', they heard a queer, seedy voice from above the sunny hatch saying,

"Welcome to the Caribbean, luv."


	7. Welcome to the Caribbean

-Chapter 7: Welcome to the Caribbean-

* * *

If looks could shatter glass, Elizabeth Swann's hand would be awfully sticky right now.

_How dare he. How __dare__ he call me 'luv'! How dare he give me this filthy fermented molasses swill! _she thought, glaring venomously at the sloshing rum-bottle Jack Sparrow had plunked in her hand.

"Looks like we've found your back way out, Su," said a small, girlish voice, interrupting Elizabeth from her epiphany (having to do with rum, fire, and one-thousand-foot-high smoke signals). The governor's stranded daughter jumped in shock and dropped the rum-bottle, as she saw sunlight reflecting off a pair of _eyes_ down in the darkness of the rum-runner's cache. "Excuse me, Miss-" added the voice-

Then Elizabeth ran like mad, ignoring the prickly shells cutting into her bare feet.

"Jack!" she gasped, once she'd caught up with him, "you said this island was abandoned, didn't you?"

The nearly-notorious pirate captain surfaced from drowning his sorrows in rum, briefly. One kohl-painted eye glanced queerly back at her over a white-sleeved shoulder, and around the bristly trunk of the coconut palm he was slouching against. "Didn't I?" Jack muttered disinterestedly.

Elizabeth circled around to his front, and added, "You said that from the look of things the rum-runners had long been out of business, didn't you?"

The pirate squinted at her like the sun reflecting off her fancy white, side-laced night-shift was blinding him. "...Is there a _point_ to this conversation, or do you just delight in populating the silence with a superfluity of meaningless words?" he inquired.

"We're not alone, Jack."

"Finished that bottle I gave ye already, did ye luv?" Jack guessed teasingly.

Elizabeth flicked her nutty hair over her shoulder in annoyance, and hissed softly, "There's _someone_ over there. Down the hatch. In the cache."

"Nah."

"Yes!" Elizabeth argued.

"Utter rot, capital bosh, rated claptrap, absolute taradiddle, nonsensicality incarnate," Jack scoffed. He took another swig of his rum, and added, "I'd have seen 'em if there were. An' see 'em I did not."

"I heard a _voice!_"

"Hearing voices already?" Jack paused, as though tracking down the right words, while distractingly twirling his gunpowder-stained fingertips beside his ear. "Thought I was the screwy one," he settled on finally, with a quick, shiny smirk.

"I think it was a child..." Elizabeth speculated, remembering how dainty the voice was.

Jack twirled the spout of his rum-bottle between his gunpowder-stained fingers, stared at her cross-eyed, and said, "Not to cast aspersions on yer sanity, Lizbef, but you're probably hallucinatin'. Or dreaming."

"It can't be _your_ dream, it's already someone else's nightmare!" said a _voice, _older, but no less girlish than the first.

"I suppose that always leaves the option of drunk," Jack suggested. "Wait-" His eyebrows screwed up suddenly, and he whirled around behind the palm trunk to face the newcomer. "-Who the devil are you?" he demanded loudly.

The girl in the strange peachy under-dress stared critically back at Elizabeth and Jack, brushed a straggly clump of black hair out of her face, then cleared her throat. "I'm-"

The strange girl was interrupted by a second newcomer, who knocked into the back of her far-too-exposed knees while stumbling out of the hatch to the rum cache.

It was a faun. A mythological, Greek, _faun_.

His young, goat-like face seemed mournful and merry all at once, just like the Greek classics described, as he stared back into Elizabeth's wide eyes. The soft, sandy hair on the faun's wiry arms was woven into many neat little braids, capped with metal beads. Two empty sword-sheaths were strapped onto his narrow back with a strange belt.

Jack grabbed Elizabeth's shoulders in shock. "What's that?" he demanded hoarsely.

She primly shoved him off. "A mythological, Greek, faun..." she murmured, mesmerized.

"Where'n oblivion did _you _come from?" Jack snarled, fumbling his flintlock pistol out of his floppy, pink-and-white striped sash, and pointing it menacingly at the newcomers.

"Oh, we're from Narnia, _presumably_," said black-haired girl offhandedly, sounding almost bored.

"Where in Greece is that?" Jack interrogated, sidling out from behind the palm and sauntering unsteadily forward a few steps, keeping his gun arm rigid.

"It's not greasy at all!" the faun huffed indignantly, in startlingly perfect English, looking totally unimpressed with Jack's show of force. Elizabeth got the definite impression that the creature had no clue what a pistol was, or did.

"Don't shoot!" A second voice squeaked, as another, smaller girl climbed out of the hatch. Her hair was oddly short, and she was also wearing strange clothes- a boyish shirt, a red-and-yellow striped cravat, and a short blue petticoat- or whatever it was. The small girl was sticking her little hands up high over her head.

Elizabeth was about to tell Jack to put the pistol down when she heard yet another voice, saying,

"Lu, has he got a _gun_?" This one sounded like a boy. "Let me up, you blasted Calormene!" he snarled.

"Enough!" growled a foreign, almost Arabian sounding voice from down in the cache. "Ask the strangers where it is we are that it should be daylight at so untimely an hour," this voice called up, "or your brother's throat is as good as slit!"

"How many of you are down there?" Jack demanded curiously.

"Lots," said the boy threateningly, as he was dragged up out of the hatch by a darkly-tanned, red-headed chap in a turban, who was pressing a nastily curved sword up against his throat. It wasn't too hard for Elizabeth to guess which one had the Arabian accent.

"Just us six," corrected the small girl.

_"Ask them!"_ repeated the Arab.

"Clear out, all of you!" Jack barked harshly.

"This _is_ all of us," sighed the older girl.

"Except Caspian," said the smaller girl.

The older girl shot her a glare, and looking at their faces, Elizabeth began to wonder if they were sisters. Actually, the black-haired boy that the Arab was holding a blade to also looked related. There was something about the rounded button noses..._ oh yes, and the Arab did call him their brother didn't he? _Elizabeth recalled.

"Names," Jack snapped. Elizabeth could see that his gun-arm was quivering slightly, and that the unexpected appearance of so many newcomers on this island made him just as unnerved as she.

"Grassroot," hissed the faun, still looking generally all-round unimpressed with Jack, his pistols, and his temper.

"Queen Lucy the Valiant," said the smaller girl, with a pretty little curtsy.

"King Edmund the Just of Narnia, Duke of the Lantern Waste, Count of the Western March, and Knight of the Noble Order of the Table," said the boy with a sword to his throat.

"Susan," said the older girl.

"Susan the Gentle, Queen of the Horn," Queen Lucy the Valiant corrected.

"Oh, hush," Queen Susan muttered.

"And the chap out cold down in the hatch is Caspian the Tenth, High King of Narnia and Emperor of Lonely Isles," Queen Lucy added, followed by, "Ow!" as Queen Susan quite purposefully stepped on her foot.

"Aye," said Jack sarcastically, "and I'm the Sultan of Siberia and the Grand Pontentate of Patagonia."

"Then as a fellow royal," chided Queen Lucy, "you should have the courtesy to-"

_"Joking," _Jack sighed. He nodded towards the vicious-looking Arab behind King Edmund, and asked, "Who's he?"

"A thief," Edmund choked out over the edge of the sword-blade.

"A lie!" the Arab snarled back.

"How can you _be_ the most notorious robber lord in Calormen and not be a thief?" Queen Lucy asked.

"Because it was my own treasure I was thieving," answered the Arab haughtily.

Lucy's eyebrows twisted up in concentration. "But I saw your sumptuous tents, I saw your caravans, you steal from _everyone_, even Tashbaan royalty! If it _were_ all your treasure, you'd have to be-" she paused, looking thunderstruck, then said finally, "...the Tisroc."

"Oh, _now_ I know why you look familiar!" Edmund exclaimed over his shoulder.

"What?" asked Queen Susan.

"What _is_ a Tisroc?" asked Elizabeth curiously. "And why is he holding you at sword-point?"

"Hey Su," Edmund went on, "remember that Calormene you had a crush on, who wanted to marry you and tried to kidnap you and got turned into a donkey? Rabadash, or something?" "Hey, ow!" he added, as the Arab quite purposefully nicked his neck with the sword.

"_No,_ and neither do you," Susan declared flatly.

Ignoring her, and the new scratch on his neck, Edmund said, "Well, I think this Locust bloke is his descendant... Funny how history repeats itself, eh?"

"'Eh' is not a word, and what do you mean _'repeats itself'?" _ Susan hissed indignantly. "I do _not _have a crush on him!"

"But he _did _want to kidnap you," Edmund pointed out.

_"So..._ lemme get this straight-" said Jack, who was obviously having a hard time following the conversation, "_you're_ all royalty, and _he's_ a mythological beasty, is that about right?"

Queen Lucy raised her little hand, just like a schoolgirl. "Can I ask a question?"

"Fine, since you asked," said Jack.

"You said this was the Caribbean, right?"

"I may have enunciated syllables to that effect."

"So..." the little girl prodded, "this _is_ Earth, right?"

"This is indeed the Terrestrial Sphere, the globe, the Vale, Terra Firma, as you like it," Jack answered crossly, looking confused.

"Susan," Lucy chirped excitably, "we've found another passage through!"

"What are we, world-hoppers?" Susan muttered sourly.

"No, this is _our_ world!" Lucy corrected brightly. "Do you suppose they'll know where Finchley is?"

"So where in the Caribbean are we?" Susan asked Elizabeth tiredly, as her sky-eyed gaze swept over the drooping palms, white sand, and candy-blue waves.

Jack smiled unpredictably, and said, "On my island."

"_Your_ island?" the Arab challenged arrogantly.

"I just so 'appen to be the _official_ Governor of this sorry spit of land," Jack insisted huffily. "Ergo, my word is law."

"Are you from a circus?" asked Edmund.

Jack stared emptily at him for a moment. Then, clearing his throat, he said, "What compels you ta ask such a preposterously cockamamie question?"

"Well, your clothes and gun are sort of old-fashioned, like in a stage drama."

"Are not," Jack argued.

"Alright, sorry, and one more question," said Edmund, "what's your name?"

"Captain Jack Sparrow."

"Are you a ship-captain?" the faun asked.

"Aye," said Jack, squinting suspiciously at the mythological creature.

"So you're a ship-captain _and _a Governor?" Lucy asked.

"And she's a governor's daughter," Jack put in, waving drunkenly towards Elizabeth with a clink of beads. "Not mine, though," he added hastily.

"Elizabeth Swann, daughter of Weatherby Swann, Governor of Jamaica," Elizabeth introduced herself formally.

"What are you doing out here alone on this island with a ship-captain-governor like Mr. Sparrow?" asked Lucy.

_"Alright," _snapped Jack, "I'd say that's plenty and enough questions from the kiddies who don't have a gun."

"What _is_ a, _gun?" _the Arab demanded.

"Deadly," Edmund replied casually. "It can blast your brains out."

"Oh, for King George's sake, Jack," sighed Elizabeth, "put that thing down, they're just children!"

"Um..." said Lucy, "don't you mean, King Edward? Edward the Eighth, Prince of Wales?"

"Who?" Jack asked, obviously irritated at having so many names of royalty flung his way. He still didn't lower the flintlock.

"What year is this?" Edmund asked abruptly.

"1717..." Elizabeth answered cautiously, "...didn't you know?"

"No way..." Edmund exclaimed, looking awestruck, for some reason. "Oh- _oh..."_

"What is it?" Susan asked.

"Oh, hey wow- Oh, I just thought of something sorta crazy..." Edmund replied, "maybe too crazy..."

_"Edmund!" _ Lucy hissed impatiently.

"Hey, you- Governor-" said Edmund, to Jack, "you're not a pirate, are you?"

"...What compels you to ask such a preposterously cockamamie question?" Jack repeated finally; guardedly.

"Yes, he is," retorted Elizabeth.

King Edmund looked contemplative, which was a bit strange, considering he still had sharp metal pressed to his throat. "It's just... Su, Lu, do you remember all that stuff Aslan said about Caspian's ancestors being pirates who stumbled through a cave on an island and wound up in Narnia and started the Telmarine dynasty?" he asked the queens. "Well, what if _this _was the island? What if _these_ were the pirates? Well- some of them, anyway. You remember how, when we went back from Narnia to Professor Kirke's house through the wardrobe, we came back the _exact instant_ we left? Well, what if we've come back through this portal the _exact instant _Caspian's ancestors left into Narnia? What if we really _are_ in the year 1717?"

"I hate to burst the bubble of your little fantasy, Ed," said Susan, "but there are a few glaring holes in that theory. One, Aslan closed the door forever after the Telmarines went through, when we beat Miraz."

"So maybe this was another way in," Edmund argued. "A room can have two doors."

"Two, the other pirates on this island- assuming it _is_ this island- were chasing the six pirates and their islander wives with cutlasses and such."

"Maybe-"

"Three, Aslan said the remaining pirates on the island had died out."

"Well..."

"Four, where are all those Telmarines now, if Aslan sent them here through the door?

"Maybe we came first," Edmund suggested. "I mean, maybe this cave portal sent us back in time _closer_ to when Caspian's ancestors first stumbled through, and the door Aslan made just sent the Telmarines back to the present day."

"Five, wasn't this island's cave supposed to be in a mountain?"

"Um... erosion?"

"Six, Aslan said there was nice soil and good wells of water and things, and all I see is sand." She glanced around at the abundant, white, blank, expanse of sand, letting that statement sink in.

"I'm sticking with the erosion theory," Edmund repeated.

"Seven, the-"

"Do you know what _I _say?" Jack interrupted, before Queen Susan could continue her absurdly confusing argument, "_I _say, you're all just some measly miserable stowaways that the rum-runners dumped on this island during their last rum-run."

"And a faun?" asked Elizabeth with a slanted eyebrow.

"Well, yes... true, point, there is that," Jack conceded flounderingly.

Suddenly, the red-head Arab collapsed to the sand with a muted groan, the curved sword falling limply from his twitching fingers.

See, amid all the arguing and theorizing, no one had noticed the sixth newcomer crawl up through the hatch to the rum cache, silently tread across the sand, and then whack the Arab on the back of the head with an iron gauntlet.

"Caspian!" Susan gasped, before Jack could demand the newest newcomer's name. "You're conscious!"

"Barely," Caspian admitted in a very Spanish accent. Dropping down on one knee, the tall Spaniard boy pressed two fingers of his un-gloved hand to the Arab's throat, then said, "He's alive."

"What _is_ that?" Susan asked, staring fish-eyed at the iron gauntlet.

"Calormene torture device. The wer-wolf was trying to make me tell where you, King Edmund, and High King Peter were. See this gear?" Caspian said, tapping the wide, flat wheel on top of his glove. "It turns four smaller gears, which turn four screws, positioned between the metacarpal fingerbones in the palm. Every time the wheel is turned, the screws drive deeper into the flesh of the palm, but that isn't the worst of it. The screws are coated with a special kind of poison that muddles the mind- so every millimeter deeper the screws are screwed, a tiny bit more of the poison creeps into the bloodstream, until the victim goes utterly insane. Simply and unimaginatively, it's called, 'The Glove'."

"Oh, Caspian!" Lucy exclaimed.

"It's alright, I've unscrewed the screws," Caspian assured her. "They didn't go in too far."

"Oh? And what about all that blood trickling out onto the sand?" Susan asked shakily. "And that thing is as rusty as an old shovel! You could get lockjaw and die if you don't disinfect it! Submerge it in seawater, the salt might help."

"Seawater? Fiddlesticks," Jack scoffed, "Try rum."

"...Rum could work," Susan admitted finally, gratefully taking the half-empty rum-bottle Jack was handing her.

As Susan tried to pour the rum in through the metal seams of 'The Glove', Elizabeth glanced around at the circle of new faces, and realized something. "Oh Captain Sparrow, look! We'd have a far better chance of saving Will from Barbossa's clutches with all these people here to help us!" she exclaimed. "You will help us, won't you?" she asked the children. "It's eight of us against-"

"Excuse me," Jack cut in, "are you honestly counting the five-year-old?"

"I'm eleven!" Lucy protested indignantly. "And I was once even older!"

"Huzzah for you," Jack scoffed.

"Anyway," Elizabeth continued rapidly, "it's eight of us against... how many men were in your old crew?

"Er..." said Jack awkwardly, scratching the corner of his ear under his scarlet bandanna, "thirty-something-ish..."

"You don't know? You don't _even_ know?" Elizabeth asked incredulously. "It's no wonder they mutinied... But anyway, there will be more on our side once we spring your crew from the Black Pearl's brig. How many are there in your present crew?

"Er..."

"Oh, for sanity's sake, Jack!" sighed Elizabeth.

"Ten- eleven...ish?" Jack guessed feebly.

"So with the eight of us here-" said Elizabeth, "well, assuming the Arab chooses to help-"

"He won't," Edmund assured her, rubbing the needly red scratch on his neck.

"_Seven_ of us here, then-" Elizabeth corrected herself, "that makes seventeen to eighteen against thirty-ish."

"We've faced worse odds," said Lucy.

"I'm _sure_," Jack drawled sarcastically.

"Who was it, again, we were supposed to be saving?" Caspian asked.

"My- A blacksmith," stammered Elizabeth. "Will Turner."

Jack shot her a sympathetic frown, then said, "Hate ta drown all sparks of hope, Miss Swann, but your darling William, by this time tomorrow night if not somewhat uncomfortably sooner, shall be dead, dead, dead. Oh, and did I mention, dead?"

Elizabeth stared at the pirate stiffly, desperately; then said, "I refuse to believe that."

"...Fine then, she refuses to believe that," Jack said finally, looking away from Elizabeth's chilly, pleading stare. "I suppose we'll have to humor her, won't we? Well," he added to the newcomers, "are any of you queer castaways qualified to join my crew?" Strolling up to Edmund, he demanded, "What skills have you?"

Edmund pulled a yellow-painted yo-yo out the senseless Arab's vest pocket, and wordlessly performed some pretty snazzy tricks.

"Juggling, wiv a string?" Jack asked skeptically.

"Actually," said Edmund, "it's-"

"-Called a yo-yo," Elizabeth finished, much to Edmund's surprise.

"How would you know?" Susan asked her.

"Well after all, Su," Edmund told her, "yo-yos _have_ been around since the time of the ancient Greeks."

"How would _you _know?"

"I knew you were Greeks," Jack cut in.

"Hey, you have your hobbies, I have mine," Edmund told Susan with a shrug. "At least, I think you have hobbies. _Do_ y-"

"Of _course_ I have hobbies!" Susan snapped. "And that's not even your yo-yo."

"Hey, just borrowing."

"_As_ I was saying," Jack cut in, "juggling with a string? Not quite legitimate jugglery, eh? Sort of like cheating?"

"Uh..." Edmund said.

"Cheating, borrowing, and non-conventional jugglery..." Jack paused in mock consideration. "You're hired." Turning to where Caspian was crouched on the sand, he asked, "How bout you?"

"Well, Sir Captain," the Spaniard began, "of the noble and heroic art of Navigation I know nothing, but I am quite accomplished at shooting a bow, and riding, and know how to play on the recorder and the theorbo fluently, and how to hunt the stag, besides Cosmography, Rhetoric, Heraldry, Versification, and History, with a little Law, Physic, Alchemy, and Astronomy. Of Magic I learned only the theory, for my tutor Doctor Cornelius said the practical part was not proper study for princes, and-"

Jack gave him a weird look, and Caspian finished with,

"I can swim and dive."

"Marvelous, you'd be shocked at how few sailors can," Jack replied. "Hired. And as to the Arab-"

_"Calormene," _Lucy corrected.

"What have you, he still can't come," Jack retorted. " I don't like turbans. And as for you two in the overly-hemmed-up skirts, or whatever you call those things, I've sworn off hiring women- just look at all the bad luck Anamaria and dear Beth here have brought me!"

"It's _Miss Swann_ to you," Elizabeth muttered blackly.

"And I'm certainly not hiring the faun," Jack finished. "And you know what?" He paused, and glanced cross-eyed at the gun he'd apparently forgotten he was holding, then un-cocked it and stuck it back in his sash. "All this dotty, poppycockish, impossible, fantasy nonsense tends to wear away at a man's sanity. I need space to think. Lizzy, you keep an eye on our Greecy guests."

"Grecians!" Elizabeth called after the pirate as he flounced away.

_"Narnians!" _the faun corrected.

"Whichever," Jack drawled.

"Have you noticed," said Lucy, once Jack was out of earshot, "he sort of walks like he's really dizzy, like this..." She stuck her arms out to her sides and started spinning in a circle. When she stopped, she staggered around dizzily, disoriented, leaving strange patterns in the sand with her stockings. "See?" she asked, with a short giggle.

Edmund smirked, Susan rolled her eyes, the faun clapped, and Caspian said,

"Wait, what about Mel? She was still in the flaming caravan!"

"Oh, and poor Batty, getting chased by a dragon-" Edmund added, "And Reepicheep _on_ the dragon-"

"We must rescue them!" the faun insisted zealously.

"But what about her friend Will, who's going to be killed by-" Lucy glanced at Elizabeth, and asked, "-who was it again?"

"Captain Barbossa and his pack of villainous pirates," Elizabeth replied darkly.

"Who are going to kill him," Lucy added. "Shouldn't we help Will first? I mean, maybe we'll go back to the exact same time we left Narnia, no matter when we go through."

"Or maybe a thousand years will have passed," Edmund pointed out.

"We should split up and see," Caspian decided, pushing himself to his feet, and staggering swayingly towards the rum-cache.

Susan and Grassroot followed him, while Edmund said, "I think I'll stay here," and Lucy said,

"Me too."

The others vanished down the hatch, and, not sure what else to say, Elizabeth asked Lucy, "So... you three are all siblings, right?"

"Yes, Susan, Edmund, and I are all Pevensies. You're very pretty, by the way," Lucy added.

"Thank you," said Elizabeth blankly, still staring toward the cache.

"I'm sorry if this is confusing you," Lucy said sympathetically, "but there really isn't time to explain, and it doesn't make much sense unless you know the whole story. Basically, there's this other world-"

"It's no use," Caspian grumbled, as he climbed back up through the hatch, stumbling once.

Susan caught him, and he smiled thankfully, awkwardly, then pulled away.

"There's now just a wall where the tunnel was," Caspian continued. "We can't get back through the way we came- not yet anyway."

"Alright," said Edmund seriously, "if we're going to rescue your friend, Miss, we'll need to build a raft..."

The Pevensie royals, Caspian, and the faun proved to be unexpectedly resourceful. After dumping out all the rum, they re-corked the empty rum-bottles to use as buoys. Then they pried nails out of the rum crates with shells, assembled the boards into a raft shape, and re-hammered the nails in with rocks.

Currently, Elizabeth was sitting cross-legged in the sand, helping Susan and Lucy weave palm boughs together into a sail while the boys were hammering. The governor's daughter was feeling pretty hopeless, all told. Especially when she glanced at the ramshackle raft, and wondered how the_ deuce_ it was supposed to carry all of them to the cursed Isla de Muerta in time to save Will.

Or at all.

A hermit crab scuttled over her ankle, as she stared at the buoys tied to the raft with coconut fiber, and muttered, "The entire Royal Navy is out looking for me... I can't _believe _they haven't found me!"

Suddenly, as Elizabeth stared, yet another excruciatingly annoying fact occurred to her, as she recalled, too late, her interrupted epiphany (having to do with rum, fire, and one-thousand-foot-high smoke signals).

"I should have burned the rum!"


	8. Deepest Magic

-Chapter 8: Deepest Magic From Before the Concept of Time-

"It's colder than I remembered it," Peter observed. He folded his arms in front of his school shirt and suspenders, and grimaced up at the forboding profile of Miraz's castle.

The large speckled owl hopping along beside Jostaberry's black hooves shivered, fluffing up all his feathers like a pincushion. "Cold was the _White Witch's _trademark..." the owl complained ominously. "Do you suppose there's even the slightest sliver of a chance Mel's still alive and breathing?"

Peter had been hearing an awful lot about Mel Fenlump lately. Apparently, she was a Marshwiggle who'd been shanghaied by evil, camel-riding highwaymen and highwaybeasts, and who was foredoomed to die a gruesomely unnatural death- if you believed the hyper-paranoid owl's ranting, that is.

And apparently, said highwaymen and beasts had also shanghaied Caspian and Edmund. Where Lucy and Susan were was a mystery.

"Jadis isn't after your friend, Batty," Peter replied stiffly. It probably wasn't the comforting speech the owl was hoping for, but it would have to do. "In fact, in case you haven't noticed in the past one-thousand, three hundred-and-three years since Aslan _killed_ her, she's _dead_."

"But I thought I heard King Edmund mention her!" Batty moaned.

"Right before Ed told you to fly to Miraz's castle, yeah, I got that bit," Peter retorted, feeling a bit frustrated. "Are you _sure_ you don't remember where that camel-driven caravan was?"

"Oh, I wish, I _wish_ I did!" sobbed the owl, rubbing his wingtips over his misty eyes. "But I was fleeing for my life from a monstrous dragon-"

"Ah yes, the _dragon_," Peter repeated dryly, as his eyes slid around his shoulder and upwards toward the foggy sky. "Who's following you. Still. Even though we've seen not a jot of evidence of that fact. Not a breath of smoke nor a flap of scaly wing."

"It is _so_ there. You-hoo'll see..." Batty muttered at the corner of his beak.

Jostaberry tossed her glossy mane impatiently. "Yes, well, if you two are _quite_ through jawing, _might _we continue on into the castle? My hooves are turning to ice!" she whined crisply.

"My poor talons too-hoo!" Batty added despondently. "Oh, if only I hadn't broken this fool wing!"

That was how the High King had met Batty. While scouring the countryside for Caspian and Peter's siblings, Peter and Jostaberry had paused at a four-way crossroads, with a signpost in the middle. They were saved the bother of choosing which route to take, when a delirious owl catapulted into the signpost, knocking off three of the road signs, and splintering the fourth.

At first, all the owl said was, 'My wing, my wing, my wing!', 'Dragon, dragon, dragon!', and, 'Mel, poor Melancholy!'. After Batty's initial delirium had passed, however, he'd had a very strange tale to tell.

Batty's story was the only hint Peter had found of his siblings' and Caspian's whereabouts- well, apart from those garbled riddles that traveling sales-rabbit told him earlier in the journey. Peter had swapped his watch, necktie, shoes, socks, and Jostaberry's silver horseshoes to the 'Argent Rabbit' in exchange for information, and all he got in return was a few meaningless riddles that made even less sense than the fortunes in fortune cookies. Then, having cleanly scammed them, the dratted bunny had hopped away. And of course, without shoes, socks, and horseshoes, Peter and Jostaberry had no chance of catching him.

Just now, Peter was seriously missing those shoes.

Unfortunately, it was even colder_ inside_ Miraz's castle than out. It was the sort of cold that gripped your spine, clawed at your ears and nose, made you squint and shudder and walk quickly, just to from freezing in place. Or just fidget a lot, if you happened to be riding on a horse.

Peter rubbed his bare toes through the chinchilla-blue fur on Jostaberry's sides, partly to keep his toes from blackening with frostbite, and partly to calm the nervous mare. He was glad she was plump, at any rate, since her extra cushioning shielded her from the frostiness somewhat. Also, Peter could clearly,_ painfully_, remember how bony the spine of the last horse he'd ridden bareback had been. It hadn't been fun, to say the least.

"It looks abandoned," Peter stated, annoyed by his chattering teeth and the way his breath came in clouds, clogging his vision. "And the weather's certainly shifted since last time. And I certainly don't recall all those gargoyles," he added, glancing left-and-right at the stony, hollow-eyed, centaurs, tigers, chameleon, otters, cat, raccoon, and suchlike lining the richly-furnished walls of the icy hallway. "Not quite Miraz's style, are they?"

"The White Witch, the White Witch, the White Witch..." Batty chattered bleakly.

"Oh, _stop_ that already," Peter chided. After a few more hollow minutes though, he added, "Though if there _were_ even the _slightest _possibility she _was_ here, I'd wager she'd be in the throne room. That way," he added, for Jostaberry's benefit.

Nodding, the mare clomped dutifully on towards the grand double doors of Miraz's abandoned throne room. The doors swung open without a creak, thanks to the generous coating of centaur-tallow on the hinges. This _had _been an anti-fantasy fanatic's castle, after all.

Seated on Miraz's impressive throne, was the last person Peter expected to see. It was also, coincidentally, the last person he'd _seen _before returning to Narnia.

_"Arnald Macready?" _Peter exclaimed. If he'd been a very little less flabbergasted, he'd have growled it.

"Peter, dear," said Arnald, and he smiled vulpinely. It was probably the freakiest two-word thing he could have said.

There was a birdcage with a stone pigeon in it to the left of the throne, and as Jostaberry trotted cautiously forwards, the temperature dropped about nine degrees.

Scurfy brown hair parted neatly down the middle, small mouth, thick neck, well-developed arms. Yep, it was Arnald alright. He wore a leather glove on the right hand. On the other hand, his short fingers were a nasty shade of blue, and they gripped the icy stone armrest carelessly. When Jostaberry finally halted, about six feet shy of the throne, Peter noticed something wasn't quite right about Arnald's eyes either. They were black. Not black as in bruised, like Peter's eyes, just black. Blank. No whites, no pupils, no color; like two splotches of ink.

"How the_ deuce _did _you _get to Narnia, you rotter?" Peter hissed shakily, while blinking rapidly, just to keep his eyelids from frosting over. Had Arnald followed him through the worlds, somehow? _Maybe because he'd been punching me in the eye just as I was called back here? _Peter wondered. _Can others get through too just if they're touching (or punching) you when you're called back? Then why didn't Arnald's school chums who were pinning my arms back come too? Or __did__ they? Does it have to be skin contact? Did we all scatter when we were pulled back here? _

Of course, all of these speculations were drowned out by the one, overruling thought of, _I just can't wait to break that smirking idiot's nose..._

Now that Arnald was _here_, in the world were Peter was High King, it was payback time.

"I shall tell you a story," Arnald declared, still smiling. "It is fitting, for I have learnt of late that in the tongue of the people of your world known as the French, my name means, 'In times past', or, 'Once upon a time', a common prologue to fairy tales."

"_Arnald_ means once upon a time?" Peter inquired flatly.

"No," Arnald scolded, curving one half of his tight-lipped smile into a mocking frown._ "Jadis."_

"Where did you learn _that_ name? Peter demanded. His hand curled around the bitterly chilly hilt of his trusty sword, Rhyndon, the only weapon he'd thought to bring on his quest.

Ignoring him, Arnald gazed straight ahead, into nothingness, and his eyes rolled back in his head, revealing that the backs of his eyeballs were black as well. Sibilantly, he echoed the word, _"Jadis,_ there lived a callow young lad no older than you, Peter, who was gardening, and despising it. This lad's aunt had conscripted him to plant crocus bulbs around the unsightly roots of a gnarly old stump, of an apple tree cut down long ago. Scraping and digging at the cold soil with his small shovel, the lad was much annoyed. Certainly he had not expected to find two rings..." Arnald snapped his icy fingers.

A foot-high anklebiter scurried out from a small side door in the throne room, huffing and puffing, and balancing a sweet little silver box on the tips of its claws.

Flipping the box-lid, Arnald reached his gloved hand in, and plucked out two shiny, lovely little rings; one green, one yellow. "...such as these..." he finished, holding them grandly aloft at eye-level.

The ankle-biter scurried off again, as quick as a frightened rat.

"He _knew_ they were not his," Arnald crooned, "He _knew_ they belonged to the owner of the apple tree. But their allure was enticing, and the lad had a heart rusted over with a fine coating of greed. When he heedlessly slipped on the green ring," Arnald went on, curling the yellow ring into his fist so that only the the green one showed, "this naughty little lad had not a clue he was tampering with forces far beyond his dim, _mortal_, understanding. Hardly could he have guessed that the ring was crafted of Atlantean dust, by a mediocre magician far before his time; and hardlier could he have guessed the ring would whisk him off to another world. Yet not _quite _a world. Oh, yes. This peaceful, pool-scattered woodland, populated by only a solitary guinea pig, was a world between worlds- a crawlspace, if you will. Windless, lifeless, silent. Possibly it was fate which led the lad to the pool he fell in. Possibly it was the guinea pig. But fall he did, into another world; a dead world. Charn. The sun had set for the last time in that forbidding place. It was a realm ruled only by spirits, voices, shrill voices, vengeful voices; crying out across the yawning, crumbling hollowness. Yet one soul was silent, in hiding, _grudgingly_ hiding from all the rest... for it was she whom had slain them. All. Every living creature. Turned to dust. With one, deplorable, word. She had once been the most mighty creature in all of Charn, but now, she was a mere shade. Only a shadow, she could do nothing- nothing but wait, and plot, and seethe in eternal ire. So, when she found that one, _live _lad in her dead world, she slipped into his mind, as easily as he'd slipped on that green ring."

"You possessed him," Peter stated in disbelief. _"Jadis," _he added acidly.

"Told you-hoo so, didn't I _tell _you?" hooted Batty in a petrified whisper.

"Aye, and then we ssssummoned her ladyship back to Narnia..." hissed a voice which could only belong to a snake. _Boa, to be precise, _Peter saw, as he glanced over his shoulder.

"How?" he asked warily, as five more figures spilled into the room behind the boa. Six, if you counted the stringy Marshwiggle tangled in the boa's sheeny black coils. There was also an orc, a Telmarine soldier, a Naiad with his arm in a sling, a tall woman, and an armadillo.

"By delving into Deepest Magic from Before the Concept of Time," the formidably tall, jet-haired woman wearing a half-burnt, buckled dress _purred_. There really wasn't a better word for it, apart from, perhaps, growled. She almost sounded like she was sick with a sore throat.

"Melancholy!" gasped Batty, with equal parts horror and joy, as he spotted the Marshwiggle.

"_That's _Mel?" asked Peter. "Wait, then are these the villains who captured Ed and Caspian?"

"Yes, yes quite-" stammered Batty, "-oh Mel, are you hurt? You look hurt. What happened? Look, I found help! I found High King Peter!_ The _High King Peter! Peter Pevensie, Wolfsbane, who slew the White Witch! _He'll_ rescue you!"

Somehow, Peter wasn't _quite_ as brimful of confidence.

"Always jumping to conclusions, eh, Batty?" Mel sighed dourly.

"And actually, it was _Aslan _who slew the Witch," Peter corrected bleakly.

"Slew me?" Arnald repeated mockingly. "Hardly. Not _thoroughly,_ in any case. As you observe, my spirit _has _been summoned back, and since I was latched to the soul of this scapegrace child, he came too."

"So what _were_ you plotting all that time in that dead world of yours?" Peter asked cynically. "You can't honestly be thinking of conquering Narnia again. I should think you'd have learnt your lesson from last time."

Arnald frowned tautly. "Ah yes, _Aslan_. He is insurmountable, beyond doubt. If I remember correctly, though, Peter, your world was rather... malleable. _Ideal." _

"How would _you _know?" Peter asked incredulously.

"Did you assume that your brother and you were the first sons of Adam I've encountered?" Arnald scoffed. "I have had more dealings with your world than you realize. -Of course, I would make a poor impression showing up looking like this, in such a pathetic vessel. So I'll need a new host for my grand return." Glancing critically over at the black-haired woman in buckled leather, Arnald stated lazily, "You'll do."

Suddenly, Arnald's head slumped limply forwards, as an eerie, colorless mist slithered out from the back of his neck. It was barely a shimmer; as imperceptible as a heat wave skimming over a summer road... yet infinitely colder.

Moments afterward, the tall woman in leather shuddered, then blinked- and her sarcastic blue eyes were now as black as her hair. She raised one lean, strong arm towards Peter, and ordered her minions to, "Seize him."

"Distract them, Batty, I'll save the High King!" Jostaberry whinnied suddenly, and pirouetting around on her hooves, she bolted towards the throne room's double doors.

"What?" Batty gasped.

"What?" Peter echoed.

The black-haired woman muttered an evil-sounding, incoherent word under her breath.

Instantly, the chinchilla mare beneath Peter evaporated into dust, sending Peter somersaulting head over heels onto the bitingly cold, dusty stone tiles. He was immediately pounced upon by the armadillo and the Telmarine.

"Jostaberry..." the High King whispered hollowly, staring in disbelief at the dust between the floor and his cheek, as the two villains wrenched his arms behind his back.

"Where am I?" groaned a voice from the throne.

Peter craned his neck up to see Arnald, looking far less otherworldly and far more flummoxed, with his arms crossed protectively in front of his sweater, and his hands clutching his shoulders.

"Fetch some chains from the torture chamber, Arnald my pet," Jadis commanded sweetly, in her new, raspy voice. Since Peter didn't know the name of the woman she was possessing, it was easier to just think of her as 'Jadis' than it had been when Arnald was possessed.

Arnald nodded, stumbled clumsily to his feet, and hurried out of the room.

Then, Jadis sauntered over to where Peter was pinned to the floor. "I couldn't rule Charn," she rasped, "I couldn't rule Narnia. But perhaps your world- what do you call it?"

"Earth," Peter answered emptily, still staring at the trail of dust that had been Jostaberry, moments ago.

"Dirt?" said Jadis scornfully. "Is it all soil?"

"No, there's rather a bit of water too," said Peter.

"Then why not call it, 'Mud'?"

"Because his world wasn't named by Marshwiggles," Mel put in scathingly, before Peter could answer.

Arnald raced back into the throne room just then, wheezing and coughing, and holding a pair of heavy iron handcuffs. He offered them tremblingly to Jadis, but she simply stared haughtily back at him and declared, "You do it."

Stepping awkwardly around the armadillo's scaly tail, Arnald bent down, and clamped the irons around Peter's wrists, "Sorry," he whispered nervously, close to Peter's ear, as he turned the key in the locks. "I don't have a choice, you see. She's been in my head, I know what a monster she is. What she's capable of."

_"Coward,"_ Peter spat back. Sure, stumbling into another world and being possessed by a vengeful witch must have been a real shocker, but Peter couldn't bring himself to be at all sorry for the kid. Not after his jokes about Susan.

"Well stand him up, already," Jadis commanded the armadillo and Telmarine, who hastily pulled Peter to his feet.

"As I recall," the Witch went on, tossing her ratty black hair over her shoulder, "the yellow ring brings you back to the timeless wood. "It works like a magnet, whatever you touch," she rasped, combing her fingers through Peter's short blond hair, "comes with."

Peter glared, jerked his head away from her hand, and tried unsuccessfully to writhe out of the Telmarine's grip.

"The rings, Arnald," Jadis commanded.

Arnald stared mutely at his clenched glove. Obviously, he'd forgotten he was still holding the rings. He warily held his hand out to the witch, and her hand hovered above the yellow ring.

"This ring brings one back to the pool-strewn woodland, from whence I can find the pool which leads to your world," she crooned, nearly slipping on the ring. She paused. "Oh yes, but ere I return there, _High Kingling_, I'm going to kill all your siblings, saving you for last. You see, before your demise, I want you to watch me overturn your world, like you overturned mine. In fact, Peter Pevensie, you're going to have the redoubtable honor of _helping_ me do exactly that. Won't that be amusing?"

"Oh yeah," Peter scoffed sarcastically. "Sounds like ripping fun, alright."

"Er- actually, yer ladyship," said the Armadillo, "We don't _have_ the three other Pevensies."

"You sent word that you did," Jadis stated crisply. "The messenger pigeon you sent is right there," she added, pointing towards the birdcage with a stone pigeon in it.

"Er- actually, they vanished into a cave on the borders of Archenland. We searched everywhere, but could find no trace of them, no side-tunnels, no passages above or below, nothing but a dead end."

Jadis's black eyes narrowed to slits. Imperiously, she growled, "Lead the way."


	9. The Gamble

-Chapter 9: The Gamble-

* * *

"_We extort and we pilfer, we filch and and ignite, drink up, me hearties, yo-ho! We ransack and bootleg, embezzle, and- _and- what else _do_ we do, Lizzybef?"

"We stop pretending we can sing."

"Oh _come now_, darling," the Captain prompted persuasively, while fiddling with the black and red dice strung in his ratty dreadlocks, "one must do _something _ta keep the slavering hounds of boredom away."

"That is a bizarre analogy."

"Boredom breeds bizarrity."

"_Bizarreness_ you mean," Miss Swann corrected briskly, "bizzarity is not a word."

"Right you are. An' since I _admitted_ you are right, can you give us the lyrics, kindly?"

"That is not a fitting shanty for the ears of children," Miss Swann retorted primly. "I _told_ you already. I _also_ told you to call me _Miss Swann_, as you've _also _failed to recall."

"_You_ sung it," the Captain countered cheekily. "I heard you, when ya were shimmying up in trees gathering coconuts, when ya_ thought_ no one was listenin'."

"_Obviously_ you weren't listening terribly well. And I am _not_ a child."

"Says you."

"Indeed," Miss Swann snapped, shifting her feet to the other side of her knees, and staring off away from Jack, towards the briny waves.

"Right, so if I might ask, what are _you_ that these here other tender youths aren't, that makes the singin' of piratical ditties just fine and peachy for _you?" _the Captain goaded. "So much more _mature_, are you?"

"Only compared to some."

Lucy rolled her eyes, and hugged her arms a little tighter around her stockinged legs, letting her chin sink onto her knees. Being stuck between Captain Jack Sparrow and Miss Elizabeth Swann, on a small raft in the middle of the Caribbean, was getting less fun by the minute.

Of course, seating options were pretty limited. On the front end of the ragtag raft, the intrepid voyagers had rigged up the palm-frond sail Lucy had woven with the other girls' help. On the back of the raft (the 'stern' as Captain Sparrow called it), they'd roped on several crates of coconuts, which would have to double as both food and drink on the voyage, since there was no fresh water on rumrunner's island. Nor rum, for that matter, now that the Pevensies had dumped it all into the sand to free up the bottles for use as buoys.

That left a roughly eight by eight foot square space in the center of the raft. No one could sit in the _dead _center though, since that made the raft cave in; so to balance it out, one person had to sit on each corner, and one on each edge. Since there were eight people, this worked out quite neatly. Going clockwise from the front, Lucy sat right behind the sail, Elizabeth sat next to her on the right front corner, then Grassroot on the right edge, Locust on the back right corner, Caspian at the back, Su next to Caspian at the left rear corner, Edmund next to Su on the left side, and finally, Jack next to Lucy, on the left front corner. It had taken an annoyingly long time to sort out this arrangement, since Locust had refused to sit next to Ed, and Su had refused to sit next to Locust, and Captain Sparrow had refused to sit next to Grassroot.

They'd been drifting across the waves for two days now. It was excruciatingly tight quarters. No one could stand up or stretch out without unbalancing the raft, and the only spot for privacy (or toilet breaks) was the small bit of crate-wood beyond the large sail in front.

"So, what should we call our raft?" Edmund asked finally, breaking the tense silence that had been gathering.

"The _Flimsy_?" Susan suggested cynically, shifting a little closer to Caspian, under the shade of the large palm frond he was holding. Maybe Su just didn't want to get sunburn... but Lucy guessed she had other motives.

"The... _Coconut Trees?"_ said Grassroot, after swallowing the mouthful of white, leathery coconut meat he'd been chewing.

"That might be a bit _too _literal, Grassroot," said Ed, as he untangled his yo-yo string from where it had knotted around his fingers. "I was thinking of calling it something with a little more zing, like, oh, I don't know- what about the _Electric Torch_?"

"You just can't stop thinking about that torch, can you?" Su sighed critically. Her dark hair was curling even more than usual in all this tropical humidity.

"Why not... the _Improvisation_?" Caspian suggested.

"Or the _Mayfly_," Locust crooned dourly, glancing up from his cross-legged meditation pose, "since that insect's life span is but a single day, which is how long I reckon this paltry excuse for a raft shall stay afloat ere we all drown." The young Tisroc's face was slightly green, nearly matching the green stripes in his tunic. He'd been seasick he'd woken up- and he had to have a headache too, considering how hard Caspian whacked him with that gauntlet. But complaining was beneath Locust's dignity. He didn't mind cursing though, which he did frequently. "May the holy punishments of Tash plague your bloodlines forever..." he hissed, wrapping his arms around his stomach, and scrunching up his face in agony.

"I still say we should shove the turbaned one overboard," Captain Sparrow muttered under his breath. That had been the Captain's plan from the start. Well no, his _first _plan was to just leave the out-cold Calormene stranded on the island, but Miss Swann had insisted that maybe Locust would mend his ways; and besides, they needed all the help they could get to rescue Will Turner from the pirates.

Locust had only actually regained consciousness about a half hour ago, and hadn't been too thrilled to learn that he was stuck, weaponless, on an 8' by 8' foot raft with seven people he considered his enemies. His fancy jeweled scimitar was tucked snugly beside Sparrow's sword in Sparrow's sword-belt. Locust kept eying the curved blade greedily, like a cat eying a mousehole. He had stopped flying into a rage and attacking people anyway, but only after the Captain had said,

"I wonder which would happen first if we cut his hands off and shoved him overboard- that he'd drown from not being able ta swim, or that the sharks would take a fancy to all that blood?"

Since then, Locust had simply been furiously sulking, glaring, and cursing. Oh yes, and vomiting every now and then, whenever the waves got too turbulent.

"For good luck, we should name it something long-lived..." Caspian speculated.

"Well..." said Miss Swann, "tortoises live a hundred years..."

"Oh, yes," Captain Sparrow scoffed, "the _Tortoise_, now _that_ sounds like it'll be rescuing Will from certain death in a _very_ timely fashion."

"Hummingbirds are fast..." Grassroot put in hesitantly.

"Something fast _and _tough-" Ed added. He'd untangled the yo-yo by now, and was lazily bobbing it up and down.

"The _Dragon_?" Lucy suggested.

"And _inconspicuous_, remember," the Captain drawled, "this_ is_ a sneak attack. Rescue, I mean, did I say attack? Slip of the tongue."

"I _do _hope you're not meaning to let your little vengeance issue with Barbossa jeopardize our plan," Miss Swann chided suspiciously.

"No, my little vengeance issue and I can wait," the Captain answered vaguely, with a nasty little smirk.

"The _Invisible Dragon, _maybe?" Lucy suggested, dragging the subject back to raft-naming.

"The _Chameleon_?" Ed tried.

"_Fast,_ Edmund," Su muttered.

Ed snapped his fingers suddenly- which tangled the yo-yo string again. "Hey, I know!" he exclaimed. "The _Naiad!_ You know, like that one you toppled, Su, when you fell off the dragon-"

"-yes, I _remember_, Ed."

"Naiads are fast, and they can turn into water, so what better camouflage could you ask for?"

"But Naiad's aren't terribly _strong_, are they?" Su countered.

"Oh, c'mon Su, you can't expect _anything _to stay standing after having _you _hurtled at it from 50 feet up."

Su pursed her lips into a small, vicious scowl, and narrowed her eyes at Edmund.

"Oh, alright, alright, never mind, fine;" sighed Ed, "not the _Naiad_. How about, the _Armored Naiad?"_

"The _Cheetah_?" said Miss Swann.

"The _Wishful Thinking?" _Captain Sparrow retorted cynically. "Honestly, this isn't the _Black Pearl, _luv."

"Well what would_ you _call it, _Jack?"_ the governor's daughter asked crossly.

The Captain twirled the corner of his mustache thoughtfully before responding. "Since you inquired," he said, "the way I see it, those waves are going to toss us like dice, and it's all a gamble whether we live or perish, so how's about-"

"The _Die_?" Miss Swann cut in sarcastically, "Oh yes, that's optimistic. "

"-No, the _Gamble," _the Captain corrected frustratedly. "That's what we're calling it. I hereby christen this floating shambles of roped palms and wasted rum, the _Gamble_."

"Just like, that, no vote on the matter?" Miss Swann asked in disbelief.

"Just, as you say, like that. It's the _Gamble_."

"If that's the way it's going to be," Miss Swann muttered darkly, "why don't we just call it the _Captain Always Gets His Way?"_

"Hmm," said Sparrow. "Catchy."

There was a groan from the raft's right rear corner. "May all your bones turn black and crumble to dust forthwith..." Locust moaned.

"The _Gamble_'s all right," Ed agreed, ignoring the seasick Calormene entirely. "Let's stick with that."

"Course, we can't christen it _proper_ wivout a bottle of rum ta smash over it," the Captain pointed out glibly.

"Why would we do that, Captain Sparrow?" Grassroot asked.

The Captain refused to acknowledge that Grassroot was talking. Lucy guessed that Captain Sparrow thought that if he pretended hard enough that the faun _didn't _exist, the faun _wouldn't _exist.

"Why would we do that?" she repeated.

"I don' know, that's jus' what folk do when they christen ships," Captain Sparrow. "Not that this bit of flotsam is a _proper _ship."

"No, it isn't, not really," Lucy agreed wistfully. "Not much like the old times, is it, Ed?" she added. "Remember our grand, royal, Narnian voyages in the _Splendor Hyaline_? That was such a charming ship- do you remember the griffin's wings carved in the woodwork?"

"They were swan's wings," Su corrected.

Lucy hid a small smile. Maybe Su _hadn't_ forgotten Narnia as well as she liked to think she had. But Lucy's happy, hopeful moment was interrupted by the noise of someone puking.

"May searing coals be rained down upon you all..." Locust muttered blackly, as he shifted away from the side of the boat he'd been bent over, and wiped his mouth on his fluted, gold-buttoned sleeve.

"Nonsense," Captain Sparrow scoffed, craning his neck upwards, "there's nary a cloud in the sky." Untying his compass-string from his belt, Sparrow shifted toward the sail, so that his back was turned to everyone else, and began fiddling with his compass. First he rotated it around in his palm, then he banged it lightly on the palm trunks underfoot to shake some water out, then he squinted at the arrow like he was nearsighted.

Lucy inched up behind him, trying to see past the flapping folds of his scarlet bandanna. The Captain's compass was neat and old-fashioned, with a brass sundial in the middle, a spinning metal arrow, and lots of fancy blue and red arrow designs, letters, and numbers. "Why doesn't your compass point North?" Lucy asked finally.

"Why are your chicory-blue eyes over my shoulder?" the Captain retorted, clapping the boxy compass shut.

"Just curious."

"Want ta know a secret about curiosity?" Sparrow whispered conspiratorially. "It kill thrice as many _kittens _as cats, even the chicory-blue eyed ones."

"You're odd," Lucy replied, inching back to her designated spot on the raft. "You're not at all like the pirates in Peter Pan- in Neverland. Well, maybe a bit. But not much."

"I should hope not," said the Captain, "What sorta' nettle-head would name a place _Neverland_, anyhow?"

Lucy shrugged, deciding that it was an easier answer than trying to explain J.M. Barrie's famous fairy story.

Shrugging himself when he realized she wasn't going to answer, Sparrow muttered sourly, "I still say someone ought ta be left behind."

"Are you volunteering, Mr. Sparrow?" Miss Swann asked ironically.

"Who among us knows the workings of this compass, deary?" the Captain asked sharply, dangling his compass aloft by his sooty fingertips. "Who's got the only pistol?"

Miss Swann glared at him, but before she could growl back the witty comeback that was obviously on the tip of her tongue, Ed cut in with,

"Did... anyone here know that yo-yos originated as hunting weapons in the Phillipines?"

"Fascinating, Ed," Su said flatly.

Locust glared at Ed, and Ed's spinning yo-yo.

Lucy had a hunch that if things got any more wound up, they'd all be killing each other before sunset.

"Well, perhaps we'd best sing a song after all," Elizabeth sighed, probably coming to the same conclusion.

"Why don't we sing a Narnian shanty?" Lucy suggested excitably. "Some of those are heart-breakingly enchanting, and I think I can remember the lyrics if I try..." _and if I look hard at Grassroot, and think of fauns and panpipes, _she added in her head.

"Hush up Lu," said Ed, "I for one should like to hear an authentic pirate shanty!"

"Well," said Miss Swann, "I make no promise about pirates, but perhaps this tune will do." She cleared her throat, and then started singing a rollicking, playful tune:

"_Come all you young sailormen, listen to me_

_I'll sing you a song of the fish in the sea,_

_and it's..._

_Windy weather boys, stormy weather, boys_

_When the wind blows we're all together, boys_

_Blow ye winds westerly, blow ye winds, blow_

_Jolly sou'wester, boys, steady she goes._

_Up jumps the eel with his slippery tail,_

_Climbs up aloft and reefs the topsail,_

_and it's..._

_Windy weather boys, stormy weather, boys_

_When the wind blows we're all together, boys_

_Blow ye winds westerly, blow ye winds, blow_

_Jolly sou'wester, boys, steady she goes._

_Then up jumps the shark with his nine rows of teeth_

_Saying, 'You eat the..."_

A shockingly white flash interrupted her song, followed quickly by a thunderclap.

"Oh, good job luv, you jinxed us!" Captain Sparrow snapped, peering off at the gathering black clouds. "Sang up a storm, ya did, you siren!"

"You're blaming me?" Miss Swann gasped incredulously.

"I'm a sailor," he retorted. "Sailors are superstitious. And the basis of all superstitions is, it's always _something_'s fault." He cupped his hand over his eyes, and peered off toward the horizon a little harder. "Those are gale-force winds, those are..." he muttered, "But where'n infernal hell did they spring from?"

"Jack, not in front of the children!" Miss Swann scolded.

"Well, about that," Lucy began, "we weren't _always _children..."

"Yes, I imagine you were puling babies once too," countered the Captain sarcastically.

"That's not _quite _what I meant..." she mumbled.

"Oh, never, never mind, Lu," said Su, "he wouldn't understand."

The wind started really sprinting now. Out at sea, there was nothing to stand in its way, no trees or buildings, no hills or crevices- and absolutely no escape. The sky darkened as the clouds clawed swiftly across the sky, until they were right overhead.

"Everybody down!" Captain Sparrow snarled over the furiously roaring thunder. "Sail down! Batten the scurvy sail! Lock hands, keep down, try to hold her together!"

Miss Swann's slender fingers grabbed Lucy's hand, Lucy grabbed Captain Sparrow's wrist, and Sparrow grabbed onto the raft.

Suddenly, an awful scraping sound vibrated up from below Lucy's knees and elbows.

"What was that?" Su asked warily.

"Reefs," the Captain answered darkly.

Without any further warning, splinters flew and ropes snapped, as the frail raft was sheared in two on the reef, leaving just the Captain, Miss Swann, and Lucy on the front half.

"Lu, take my hand!" Ed yelled, but Lucy couldn't see where his hand _was_ even, since it had started to rain, hard.

The lightning crackled and hissed like frying oil, and the waves seemed to boil. An especially large wave crashed over Ed's half of the raft, sweeping someone- Lucy couldn't tell who- away from the wreckage.

"Caspian!" Su yelped. Squinting hard, Lucy could just make out Su's peachy party dress, as Su dove into the water.

"Su, are you daft?" Ed called out.

"He can't- can't- swim with that gaunt- let, on, now can he?" Su retorted, through choking mouthfuls of wave.

There was another splash, as Ed jumped in after Su, and as another wave pummeled that half of the raft, Grassroot's hooves were swept out from under him, leaving those palm trunks empty. Lucy couldn't see Locust anywhere.

Luckily, Grassroot managed to paddle over to Miss Swann, and he managed to clutch onto her ankle, just as the front half of the raft surged far away from the reef.

Lucy held onto Miss Swann's and Sparrow's hands fearfully, breathing raggedly. She felt Jack's rough fingers curl around her wrist, and she was amazed at how steady his pulse was. Hers was positively racing.

Another wave crashed over the four castaways, and Lucy shut her eyes tight, as the lightning and thunder continued their drumming dance.


	10. Conscripted

-Chapter 10: Conscripted-

* * *

Edmund paddled fiercely, choking on saltwater, and really wishing he hadn't flunked out of the school swim team.

Two clammy brown hands latched around his wrist suddenly, dragging him out of his frog-paddle stroke.

"Hey, let go!" Edmund choked out, struggling to keep his mouth and nose above the waterline. "You're drowning me!"

"Would that be such a loss?" sneered Locust's cruel, catty voice. Releasing Edmund's arm abruptly, Locust's fingers snatched Edmund's black hair, forcing his head underwater.

Reflexively, Edmund kicked backwards, as hard as he could. Which wasn't very, since the water softened the thrust of his kick, and made the impact slippery. On the second kick though, he managed to dislodge his would-be killer, and to snatch a gasp of air. The saltwater in his nose and throat made him feel sick, the saltwater in his eyes blinded him, but still Edmund paddled frenziedly away- then stopped several yards later, when he realized something.

Locust wasn't following him. In fact, even after swiping the sea foam out of his eyes, Edmund couldn't see a trace of the Tisroc's colorful clothes nor scarlet hair above the heaving waves.

Edmund's conscience twisted inside him, prompting him to go back. He tried to ignore the prompt- but his better nature won out. So, after muttering, "I'm _really_ gonna regret this..." he paddled back, and dove underwater. Forcing his eyes open despite how bad they stung, he scoured the murky green water for anything remotely resembling green-and-orange stripes, or red hair. His toe caught on something, and he grabbed for whatever it was, then surfaced as he ran out of breath. The thing gripped in his shaking fingers was a long swathe of coal-black silk- Locust's turban. _Well, _Edmund thought, _I tried._

Somehow, he couldn't just leave it at that.

So, after sighing through clenched teeth, Edmund took another wide gulp of air, and plunged back down. He forced himself to go deeper this time, which was harder than he'd expected, since this water was far more salty and buoyant than his school's pool. But his eyes were used to the stinging this time, and Ed caught sight of a dark, cloudy patch of water, to the left of the vibrant red reef. He flung his cupped hands out to his sides hard, trying to plummet towards the cloud before his air ran out again. As he got closer, he could make out fluttering cloth, a sun-browned arm, a scarlet sash. Reaching Locust at last, Edmund grabbed the Calormene's limp arm, and tried to swim upwards. But on the third tug, Edmund realized that Locust was stuck- wedged between some of the reef's stony, dead coral by the heel of his twisty wooden shoe. There wasn't enough time to unlace it.

Edmund's throat began to feel icy, and his lungs began to burn. Grabbing Locust around his narrow waist, Ed kicked the reef with all the strength he had left. Bits of pink, bony coral scattered like a broken light-bulb, and, shutting his eyes, Edmund used his last fraction of strength to swim to the surface, with one arm.

He broke free with a shuddering gasp, and quickly pulled Locust's limp neck backwards, yanking his sharp Calormene face out of the water. Edmund's first thought after blinking away the seawater was, _Oh great, I've rescued a dead bloke._

His next thought was to get behind Locust, clasp his wrists under Locust's ribcage, and thrust back hard towards Locust's spine. Edmund had never performed the Heimlich maneuver before, and he was sure he _had_ to be doing it wrong. But after about eight sharp thrusts, water spurted out of Locust's mouth, and he started choking and coughing.

Momentarily, Locust's glassy, confused eyes focused on Edmund; blinked, squinted, then rolled back in his head. He'd passed out again.

"Bother it," Edmund muttered, struggling to keep both their heads out of the water. At least they were alive... and Locust didn't smell so strongly of frankincense now. Those were the only two lucky things Edmund could find with his situation.

Number three came soon, and unexpectedly. A huge shadow crept up from behind Edmund, spilling out blackly over the waves. Peering over his shoulder, Ed saw a fantastic ship- a huge, lovely, old-fashioned warship- gleaming with blue and gold paint. He hadn't heard it approach, due to all the water stuck in his ears, and it took him completely by surprise. "HEY!" he shouted up, "HELP! DOWN HERE!"

A man in a black, tri-corner hat and a startlingly red uniform appeared by the ship's rail. "I say!" said the man. "Commodore Norrington!" he called out, "I think you ought to have a look at this!"

"And what, pray, am I supposed to be looking_ at_, Officer Cummings?" asked a stiff, bored voice. A taller, imposing man, wearing a similar black hat, a white wig, and a fancy blue coat with gold trim, ambled into view. He stopped beside the first man by the rail, giving him a critical glance.

Cummings pointed wordlessly down at Edmund and Locust.

"Castaways?" muttered Commodore Norrington.

"Sort of," said Edmund. "Could you help us out?"

"Throw them a line," the Commodore directed the officer.

Moments later, a wrist-thick, knotted rope splashed into the water beside Edmund. He would have had no trouble climbing it on his own, but hoisting a drenched, unconscious Calormene up it would be trickier. "Um- this chap can't climb," he called up. "He's not quite conscious."

"Mr. Roderick?"' the Commodore said to another man, in a dull checkered shirt, who had joined the first two by the railing.

"Aye sir?"

"Help him."

"Aye sir."

Roderick obediently climbed down the rope, hoisted Locust over his broad shoulders like a sack of flour, and climbed back up. Edmund followed after, impressed by Roderick's strength, and a bit jealous. Mostly, though, he was just glad to be rescued.

"Pretty snazzy ship you've got here," he said, once his socks were on solid ground. Well, swaying woodwork, anyway, but it felt way more solid than the seawater. Edmund gazed up admiringly at the outdated British ensign, flapping majestically from the ship's flagpole.

"What's your name, lad?" the Commodore inquired.

"King Edmund of Nar-" Ed began without thinking, but not wanting the Commodore to think he was nutters or anything, he corrected, "er- just Edmund, I mean, Edmund Pevensie. Say, can I ask you a favor? It's about my sisters and some other people from my shipwreck- well, _raft_-wreck, actually-"

"Unhand me, infidel!" spat a familiar voice. Several feet away, Locust had regained consciousness again, and was struggling furiously away from the sailor who'd saved him. Roderick dropped the red-head like he was poisonous, shocked by his sudden recovery.

Locust scrambled defiantly to his feet, but just soon collapsed to the deck again, looking annoyed by his lack of strength.

Commodore Norrington paced lazily over to the soaked young Tisroc, glancing down with a decidedly unimpressed expression. "You look like a _Turk,"_ he said suspiciously.

Locust thrust his pointy chin out, and scowled venomously up at the taller man. "_You_ look like a stuffed stork," he retorted haughtily.

"Amicable trading agreements between the British Empire and the Turks notwithstanding," the Commodore went on stiffly, "there are still a few stragglers off the Barbary coast who call themselves corsairs... and deny it vehemently, of course, whenever they're caught like rats in a trap. I had a cousin in the East India Trading Company once- he was waylaid by Barbary corsairs. They showed no mercy. After I paid the ransom, they sent me his headless corpse. When I tried tracking the beasts down, they vanished like smoke. In light of this, you may gather why I take a rather _dim_ view of your sort. The brig, Mathers. It's been empty too long."

As he was hauled away by the rather tall officer named Mathers, Locust snarled loudly, "May you be cursed to live forever as a tail-less ox in a sea of biting gnats!"

"Gee," said Edmund, "Calormene insults are almost as colorful and nonsensical as their poetry."

"That goes for _you _too, miserable Pevensie pondscum!" Locust added, as he was pulled down a nearby hatch.

"Yeah, you're welcome for saving you from drowning and all! Any day!" Edmund called back crossly. Turning back to the Commodore, he added, "Sorry about him, he's a little- well, you saw."

"Search that saucy barbarian," the Commodore ordered another, blond officer, "and notify me if you find anything worth notifying. But first, search his accomplice."

"What- _me?"_ Edmund stammered uncomfortably, as the officer stepped up to him, and started feeling his sleeves. "But- hold it- I'm not- look, all I've got is this yo-yo, see?" Ed said, hastily pulling it out of his trouser pocket by the string, and bouncing it up into his palm.

After inspecting Edmund's arms and socks, and prodding around his waist and neck, the blond officer said, "He's right sir, nothing else on his person but this..."

"Rubber band," Edmund said helpfully.

"Indeed, this, rubber... band," said the officer cautiously, obviously having no idea what the pink, stretchy thing was. "And this... er..."

"Soggy train ticket," said Ed. "Not that you'd know what a train is."

Deciding not to ignore that last comment, the officer added, "He hasn't any brands or tattoos either, at least not in the usual places."

"Can... we go look for my sisters now?" Edmund asked, wondering _why_ the heck they'd think he'd have a tattoo.

Norrington's hands clasped behind his back, and he stared off absently into the distance. "We are already on a search-and-rescue mission of far more imperative caliber," he stated bluntly.

"Who are you looking for?" Edmund asked curiously.

"A Miss Elizabeth Swann of Port Royal, lately abducted by pirates. Dare I suppose _you've_ seen her?" the Commodore asked in a dry, sarcastic way.

"Yeah, actually."

"You have?" Norrington glanced down at Edmund. "I don't believe you." But after a moment, the Commodore demanded, "Where?"

"Not sure _where_, really. About two hours' swim from wherever you picked me up, I should imagine."

"She's still on the pirate's ship then?" Norrington wondered, sounding disgusted by the very thought.

"No, she's clinging for dear life to the wreckage of a coconut-tree raft, last I saw."

"Which way?" Norrington demanded eagerly.

Edmund shrugged. "The sun was in my eyes most of the swim, so- East, I guess? But we have to find Susan and Caspian first, they were swept off- um- Northwest, I think, and they don't even have any wreckage to keep them afloat!"

Frowning tautly, the Commodore paced away from Edmund, and went back to staring vacantly over the ship's rail. "I'm afraid your friends must be left to their fate."

"Hey, what?" Edmund exclaimed, with a sudden sinking feeling.

"I cannot exceed my charter as a Royal Navy commodore to go traipsing off after every hapless castaway in the Caribbean."

"You mean you're just going to leave them to drown?"

"I'm sorry."

"No you're not, you're-" Edmund bridled the angry words he wanted to retort, and, coming up beside Norrington, said instead, "-look, it's not _that _far out of your way, and I don't think it would take too long, and- dash it all, my _sisters_ are out there! Couldn't you just spare maybe a couple of hours to-"

"No."

"But-"

"Mr. Pevensie," the Commodore said sternly, still not bothering to shift his gaze from the sea, "it is a _short_ distance between here and those waves, so unless you'd care to be _escorted_ back to where you were found, I suggest you earn your keep aboard the HMS Dauntless. Lieutenant Groves!"

"Yes, commodore?" said a man leaning one shoulder against the mainmast, who was wearing a blue coat that was much less fancy than Norrington's, and had been patiently watching this whole conversation.

"You said you needed a new cabin boy, and here he is. Show him the ropes, won't you."

"Yes, Commodore," replied Groves, hurrying over. The lieutenant had an honest face. "Not to be presumptuous, sir," Groves added over his shoulder, as he began pulling Edmund away by the wrist, "but - isn't this all a tad bit- well, tyrannical?"

Still not shifting his gaze a jot, Norrington drawled ironically, "Try having the woman you're proposing to fall off a wall and get abducted by pirates before giving you her answer, and see what that does to _your_ nerves."


	11. Castaways

-Chapter 11: Castaways-

* * *

"Come on, come _on_!" Susan pleaded, shoving her aching palms down into Caspian's chest yet again, _"breathe! _Was it fifteen thrusts or thirty? Oh, _cripes_, I can't remember! Two rescue breaths..." That bit was memorable enough.

Shakily pinching Caspian's elegant nose shut, Susan leaned down. Her knees and bare toes dug into the shifting, sandy silt, her lips closed over Caspian's, and she blew in deeply, closing her eyes. Because, with her eyes shut, she could pretend she was just inflating a party balloon, instead of Caspian's lifeless chest cavity.

She gasped for air, then administered the second breath, then went back to the chest-shoving. "Oh_ why_ didn't I pay attention in first aid class?" she hissed frantically, wondering where she'd picked up this inane habit of talking to herself when she was freaked-out. "But I'm _not _talking to myself, because Caspian's right here, he's alive, he has to be- I only _just_ got him back! I only just got you back," she repeated, in a whispered sob, as her lips hovered above his. Then she gave him the next two breaths.

His chest lifted up and down, but only thanks to _her _lung capacity.

"No, please,_ no_," Susan muttered hollowly, shakily resuming the compressions on Caspian's lovely, admirably toned chest. Her arms already felt weak from swimming Caspian to this little islandy, reef-rimmed... whatever it was, and she felt totally helpless, which made her angry. She channeled every ounce and milligram of this anger into pounding away at Caspian's ribcage. _"Breathe! _Please! Oh, I should never have gone through that door, I should never have left Narnia- how could I have left _you?_ Don't leave me," she pleaded, shivering uncontrollably, as her fingers clutched the indigo silk of Caspian's tunic. The rip at the shoulder had torn further, revealing most of his upper arm, and of course, his scar from that werewolf bite. "I thought it was obvious," Susan went on; bitterly ironic, "I thought you already knew- I mean, you'd be pretty thick if you didn't- so I never even told you..."

The tears were streaking down her face now, hot and salty, blurring her vision. She could taste them as her lips closed around Caspian's yet again. _Breath one, breath two-_

Suddenly, Su tasted seaweed and spit in her mouth. Caspian's spit. He was coughing. _Gross._ Susan pulled back and spit out the High King's saliva in her mouth, then leaned back instantly, like he were a magnet and she a nail. "Oh, I _love_ you!" Susan gasped, mostly because it was the first thing which came to mind. "I mean-" she added, with an abrupt surge of embarrassment as Caspian's eyelids fluttered, "-can you hear me?"

"Well, there_ is_ a lot of water in my ears," he replied groggily, blinking up at her. His pupils were dilated, and Susan tried to remember whether that was a sign of shock.

"Yes, that's because we're not exactly on dry land- it's sort of a plateau, or semi-sunken island, about two inches below the waterline, encircled by a reef- I think 'atoll' is the word," Susan rambled on ecstatically. _Alive, he's alive!_

Caspian tried to sit up, but Su pushed him gently, but firmly, down again. "No, don't try to move, I think you're in shock," she stated authoritatively.

"I'm not shocked."

"No, it's a medical condition. You can go into shock with almost any serious injury or trauma."

"I'm not-"

"And _yes_," Susan interrupted impatiently, "unconsciousness, not breathing, and being punctured with a poisonous, insanity-inducing gauntlet, all count as serious injury and trauma. Now, how do you feel? Are you dizzy? Confused? Nauseous? Do you hurt at all?"

"Well," Caspian confessed, "my ribs do feel somewhat bruised."

"Sorry, that would be my fault," Susan muttered awkwardly, brushing her wet hair off of her nose and tear-sticky cheeks. "I was saving your life."

'Then you needn't apologize," replied Caspian, smiling.

_He has fantastic teeth,_ Susan thought dreamily. She shrugged, which made her realize that one of the shoulder-straps on her party dress had ripped during her frenzied swim, leaving one shoulder bare. Embarrassed, she started trying to tie the two broken, peachy, halves of the strap back together.

"Where are the others?" Caspian asked in a disoriented tone, trying to to sit up again, and probably not even noticing her clothing predicament.

"I haven't the foggiest," Susan sighed, as she finished double-knotting the strap.

"I just don't- don't understand it..." Caspian stated brokenly. "I'm a most excellent swimmer- not to be bragging- but then... then everything went black, and then I woke up here..." His eyebrows scrunched into a puzzled expression, and he brushed the backs of three iron-encased fingers over his lips.

"It's not_ too_ hard to understand," Susan retorted, "I mean, for_ goodness sake_s, you were _poisoned_, and you had just been knocked unconscious two days ago by Locust's filthy torturer bandits. Perhaps you simply had a relapse, I hear it can happen with cranial trauma-"

But Caspian wasn't listening. His eyes were foggy, unfocused, elsewhere. Then he blinked up at her strangely with those toffee-brown eyes of his, as if seeing her for the first time. "Did you... kiss me?" he asked cautiously.

"No- erm- that was-" Susan stammered, feeling her cheeks go hot, "I mean- I was saving your life."

"By bruising me and kissing me?" Caspian asked teasingly.

"_No_, by trying to get your heart to beat, and breathing air into your lungs. It's called CPR and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation- it's a fairly common medical aid technique in my world."

"Maybe you should teach me," Caspian said, and his smile went wry at one corner. "It sounds intriguing. Especially the _kissing _part."

"It was _not _a kiss!" Susan protested.

"You kissed me in Narnia too," Caspian reminded her softly.

"That was different- it was just a goodbye kiss, since I was never going to see you again anyway, and- and-" She looked away quickly, so Caspian wouldn't see the fresh tears in her red, puffy eyes.

"Susan?"

"Mm-hmm?" she hummed, not trusting her voice with actual words.

Under the two inches of water, she felt Caspian's gauntleted fingers close tenderly around her hand.

"I love you too."

Susan glanced back, and realized what an absolute _dolt _she'd been lately. Here she was, with _Caspian_ again. She'd been given a second chance with the only boy she'd ever really, _deeply_ cared about, and what was she doing? Denying it. Ignoring it. Ignoring Caspian. _If this __is__ a dream,_ Susan decided adamantly, _I don't want to wake up._

Caspian's free hand reached up, curled around the back of her neck, and softly pulled her head back down toward his.

Susan closed her eyes blissfully, breathing in the tangy smell of salt and sweat, as they shared a sweet, mellow kiss.

Then a frisky wave catapulted over their heads.

Coughing and spluttering seawater, Caspian laughingly added, "Can I get up now?"


	12. Sparrow's Scheme

-Chapter 12: Sparrow's Scheme-

* * *

Dragon-hunting was far more fun.

Sure, Grassroot's quest with the master swords-mouse had been strenuous, perilous, and tense, but at least it hadn't been so absurdly _wet_. "My swords shall surely rust in their sheaths," the faun complained sourly.

"I hate stuck swords," mumbled the lady from Queen Lucy's world, Elizabeth, who was clinging numbly to her corner of the busted, splintered raft. "They're absolutely worthless for defending one's mansion from bloodthirsty pirates," she added lazily.

"How's your ankle, milady Elizabeth?" Grassroot inquired tentatively.

"Much better now that there's not a faun attached to it, thanks," she retorted dryly.

"I _said _I was sorry," Grassroot huffed. He really hadn't meant to twist her ankle like that- he'd just blindly grabbed the nearest handhold to keep from getting swept away in the clutchy waves. But the storm had ceased hours ago, and the young faun had managed to latch onto the raft's soggy, shredded, palm-frond sail instead.

Grassroot didn't mind being on ships- after all, ships were wood, and fauns were woodland creatures- but he preferred water to be in, say, goblets and streams, instead of in his ears, eyes, throat, nose, fur, hooves, and sword-sheaths. "I hope Master Reepicheep is alright, after getting flown off on that dizzy-brained dragon," the faun sighed dismally.

"I hope Su, Ed, Caspian, that Marshwiggle girl, and even Locust are alright, after getting swept off to sea, and poisoned, and tortured, and gosh knows what else," Queen Lucy added from atop the tattered remains of the raft. She was the only one light enough to actually sit on it without sinking it by this point.

"I hope Will's alright, after getting captured by murderous skeleton pirates who want to sacrifice him to Aztec gods..." Lady Elizabeth added nervously.

"I hope _you_ three are alright in the head, ta be hopin' _they're_ all alright," Captain Sparrow scoffed, from the edge of the wreckage he was clutching with his sooty, cloth-wrapped hands.

"Don't you believe they've any chance?" Elizabeth asked pleadingly.

But the captain wasn't in the mood for comforting answers. "I believe in odds," he retorted derisively, "an' odds are against them."

"I believe in prayer," Queen Lucy mumbled softly.

"How theologically charming for you," Sparrow muttered cynically.

Bluntly ignoring the pirate, Lucy bowed her head and shut her eyes. Behind the damp strands of nutty hair falling in her face, Grasroot could see her small lips silently mouthing the words to her prayer.

She hadn't even finished when, out of the blue, the raft shuddered like a frightened puppy. Grassroot's first thought was, _Not more reefs... _But peering up through the muggy blue sea-fog, he could make out a pillar shape, with something basket-shaped on top... _Oh,_ he realized, _it's a crow's nest. We've hit into a crow's nest. Queer._

"It's a sunken ship..." Queen Lucy said in fascination, grabbing onto the ratlines dangling down from the crow's nest, since she'd been knocked off the raft when it shattered against the mast. "Mostly sunken, anyway."

The captain's wet bandanna nodded briskly, and he wasted no time clambering up past Lucy on the ratlined ropes, spattering water droplets on everyone below him.

"I'm so stiff, I can scarcely move..." Lady Elizabeth complained, as she began climbing up too, her bare, wet, human feet slipping off the ropes every other step. "Captain Sparrow, could you give me a hand?" she called up to the pirate in the crow's nest.

There was an odd popping noise. Then, wordlessly, Sparrow handed her down a long, jointed bone, with a skeleton hand still attached to it; finger-bones clicking in the breeze.

Elizabeth reflexively batted the hand away like it were a monstrous, bird-eating spider; and it broke off of the arm, landing, annoyingly enough, on one of Grassroot's horns. He shook the creepy thing off irritably, wondering _why_ things were_ always_ dropping on him.

"That's _not_ funny," Elizabeth snapped bitingly, scowling at the back of Sparrow's braided and matted head, as she stumbled awkwardly into the crow's nest beside him.

Sparrrow just smirked, and continued prying what looked like a spyglass out of the skeleton's other hand. He rubbed the grimy lenses with the cuff of his puffy, once-white sleeve, then held the spyglass up to his squinting eye, and turned in a small, tight circle.

"What do you _see?_" Lady Elizabeth asked, hovering impatiently behind his shoulder.

"The Isla de Muerta."

"What makes you say that?"

"Crazy hunch."

Elizabeth snatched the corroded spyglass from the pirate.

"Ya won't like it," Sparrow warned.

"I see... oh!" Elizabeth exclaimed giddily. "There, in the bay, just around that bluff, black sails! It's the _Black Pearl!_ But... I don't see anyone on deck... Where's Will?"

"Told ya ye won't like it," Sparrow retorted, nabbing the spyglass back. Its water-worn metal parts screeched loudly as he collapsed it, and stuck it away in a vest pocket.

But Grassroot was paying more attention to Queen Lucy, who was still holding onto the ratlines, her small toes curling thoughtfully around the bristly rope footholds. Grassroot would've joined her up there, if his hooves weren't so pathetically awkward on ropes.

"Awfully coincidental, isn't it," Lucy speculated, "us washing up at_ exactly _the island we were trying to get to?"

"Not so very," Sparrow replied flippantly, not bothering to glance down. "Take this poor lookout chump," he added, waving towards the skeleton he'd just filched the spyglass from. Dragged here by the, shall we say, _magnetic _nature of the Aztec curse, no doubting. See, foundered somewhere's in this very bay are the ships that brought the jinxed treasure here- Cortez's treasure galleons, which were cursed ne'er ta reach Spain._ Obviously,_ certain other persons ne'er got where they was goin' either."

"So..." Elizabeth began musingly, tucking a stray lock of damp hair behind her ear, as her gaze swept over all yardarms, prows, sails, and spars of dead ships knifing up through the murky bay. "...If this island draws ships too it... do- do you suppose the Royal Navy ships out searching for me will get dragged here too?"

"Much as I'd _luv_ ta see his Commodoreness's vessels join this charmingly scenic graveyard of castaway ships," Sparrow replied wryly, "the Navy'd have ta be in the _general _geographical area, doll face. The Caribbean ain't a duckpond."

Elizabeth's pouty lips pressed into a frown, and she drummed her slender fingers irritably on the rail. She was obviously getting fed up with the captain's incessant sarcasm. Urgently leaning over the crow's nest rim, she said to Grassroot and Lucy, "We should sneak into the pirate's treasure cave by the back way, through the sea-tunnels Will rowed through to save me the last time we were here."

"Really?" said Lucy in morbid curiosity, "So _you_ were kidnapped by these pirates too? That's simply horrid!"

As Elizabeth opened her jaw to answer, Sparrow cut in with, "That's _not_ the plan, sweetheart. Listen up- we slip aboard the _Pearl_,_ now_, whilst she's ill-guarded, and spring me crew, and take the ship."

"Yes, and I know exactly what you'll do once you take the ship," Elizabeth shot back simmeringly. "You'll _take_ the ship. You won't come back for Will- why would you, when he's making such a convenient distraction for you, getting his throat slit?"

Sparrow's eyebrows rose comically under his damp red bandanna. "You have a somewhat subterranean opinion of me, considering I saved yer precious aristocratic skin from drowning," he drawled.

"And threatened to strangle me with a chain not two minutes after!_ And_ you were going to trade Will to Captain Barbossa for that ghost ship of yours."

"Honestly?" Lucy gasped, giving Elizabeth a sympathetic look, then shooting Sparrow a scolding glance.

"Yes, Will told me so," Elizabeth told her.

"Did he, now," Sparrow muttered tonelessly.

"Yes."

"Look," the captain began ominously, "the _Black Pearl_ is _infinitely_ faster than our bit of spatchcock palm-tree flotsam down there, wrapped around the mast of this sunk mizzenmast- was. _If _dear Wiwliam is still alive, it's cause Barbossar's decided ta keep him that way. So, we prepare. We raid the _Pearl_'s weapon stores, and-"

"No," Elizabeth interrupted crossly. "I don't trust you."

"I noticed," Jack shot back with a humorless smirk. He paused thoughtfully for roughly a minute, absently twiddling the beads braided into his forked beard. "Right, fine," he slurred finally, "since you don't think I'm square, here it is, so listen close: we split up- I'll clamber up them rocks there ta above the treasure caves, whilst the faun and the chicory-eyed-"

"You're acknowledging I exist?" Grassroot interrupted incredulously.

"Why not? Nofing else makes sense," Sparrow retorted flatly. "Anyhow, as I were saying: whilst the faun and the chicory-eyed kitten sneak in through aforementioned sea-caves; meanwhile _you_, luv, sneak aboard the _Pearl_, spring me crew, load all the starboard cannons, grab ye a light, an' touch off all the fuses in quick succession, hammerin' the isle wiv a full broadside. Faun and kitten rescue blacksmith in confusion, an' use his blood ta break the curse- if it isn't broke already- so's skellies can be blasted by you lot on the _Pearl_- whilst I sniper-shot Barbossa from a hole in the cave roof, then we all reconvene at the _Pearl_, and sail the plague out of here!"

With a sarcastic tilt of her elegant chin, Elizabeth said, "That's _not_ a sneak rescue."

"Better plan?" Sparrow asked crisply, whirling to face her and glaring her down nose-to-nose. "No? Sad. Hop to it."

"Fine," Elizabeth snapped, hitching up the hem of her white, lace-up gown. Taking two steps over the crow's nest rail, she plunked back into the foggy waves, and started swimming towards the _Pearl_.

_She swims quite fluidly,_ Grassroot thought, _like a mermaid. _

"Can you two half-pints swim?" Sparrow critically asked the youngsters below him.

"Um..." Grassroot began.

"Sort of..." Lucy put in.

"Not really," Grassroot finished.

"Don't fret it, neiver can a _scandalous_ number of his majesty's finest seamen," the captain informed them ironically. "Better grab a piece of driftwood when ya paddle over then. The cave Will and I rowed in by is right there- third on the left, at that shady rock face yonder," he directed, pointing to a sloping side of the island. "You just can't _see_ it now, on account of the high tide. Worry not, there should be air in the tunnels _somewhere_. Off ya go!"

Once Grassroot and Lucy reached the rock face in question, they exchanged a nervous, uncertain glance. Then they both dove underwater and, sure enough, there was the sea-cave Sparrow spoke of, third on the left. As soon as Grassroot reached the cave ceiling, he had to stick his hands in, and grab its barnacle-encrusted rim, to keep his feather-light form from bobbing back to the surface. He pulled himself inside the cave, and felt his back and sword-sheaths scrape and snag against the ceiling as he paddled blindly forward, wondering _when_ he and Lucy would reach those air pockets Sparrow mentioned.

Something slithered against Grassroot's hoof, and he glanced down in alarm. In the dim light of the sea-cave entrance, he saw two scissor-jawed eels- one spilling out of the mouth of a rusty cannon, and the other one right behind him. He swam a little faster, ignoring the scrapes on his back.

Finally, the black water in the tunnel widened out, revealing about six inches of breathing space at the dripping limestone roof. Grassroot and Lucy surfaced nearly simultaneously, gasping profusely. The air smelt pungently of dead fish. After a while, breaking the eerie silence of their dark swim, Lucy whispered timidly, "You remind me of... of another faun I knew once- but I mean, it's probably just because you _are_ a faun, and whenever I think of fauns, I can't help thinking of-"

"Mr. Tumnus?" Grassroot guessed. He'd heard the tales, of course, of that famous first Narnian to ever meet the royal Narnians- indeed, Tumnus had been a great source of pride to the Faun-folk through the long years.

"Yes!" Lucy exclaimed, but when the echoing "Yes!" ricocheted off the cave corners, she lowered her voice again. "You're not- I mean, there isn't any chance that you- that he-"

"Oh no, we're not related," Grassroot assured her hastily, while rubbing his sore nose, after conking into another stalactite. "I don't hail from such a noble lineage as that!"

"Sure- of course," Lucy said disappointedly, "I mean, that would be-"

"Coincidental-"

"-Silly-"

-Absurd."

"-Whom _do_ you hail from?" she cut in insistently, her sky eyes huge with curiosity, and gleaming with the chinks of blue light sneaking through the ceiling and reflecting off the ripples.

"Oh- er... not sure, really," Grassroot muttered cautiously, feeling embarrassed. "That's why they call me Grassroot, cause my roots are so shallow, I could've sprung up from anywhere. Like grass."

"So you _could _be Tumnus' descendant?" Lucy persisted mischievously.

"Oh no, I am sure I am not, Queen Lucy."

"Why?"

Grassroot shrugged his knobby shoulders out of the lapping water, and twitched his long, pointy, water-logged ears. He wished the stalactites weren't so drippy.

Thankfully, Lucy didn't repeat the question.

Eventually, the tunnel sloped upward, the airspace increased, and the water level fell, until it was just up to their waists, instead of their chins. Grassroot felt his cloven feet clicking on something metal, and by a dim trickle of moonlight, he saw something gleaming under-hoof. Reaching his arm and shoulder underwater, he pulled up a silty handful of coins and gemstones. Sparrow hadn't been kidding when he'd said 'treasure' caves.

Spotting a twisty cutlass-hilt sticking out of the water near the cave wall, Grassroot let the valuables slip through his fingers, waded over, and yanked the weapon out with a sickening 'crack'. "Hey," he whispered, pulling a disoriented crab off the blade, and handing the cutlass to Lucy. "Arm yourself."

"It's rusty," she murmured critically.

"But effective," Grassroot commented ironically, glancing back down at the skeletal ribcage he'd yanked it out of.

"I just hope I don't have to use it," Lucy whispered miserably, with a weighty little sigh, as she stared morosely at the ancient sword she held.

Wading back through the coins to Lucy's side, Grassroot placed a calming hand on her slumped shoulder, and murmured firmly, "As do I, my Queen."

Turning around suddenly, Lucy's short arms shot around his fuzzy ones, as she gave him a quick, tight hug.

_Unexpected..._ Grassroot thought, ..._but by no means unwelcome._

Maybe dragon-hunting wasn't more fun after all._  
_


	13. By Blood Undone

-Chapter 13: By Blood Undone-

* * *

"Nothin' ta worry about, just a prick of the finger, no reason to fret!"

"He's only_ half _Turner," the pirate named Twigg snarled, leaning in close as he finished, "this time, we spill it all!"

Will felt himself being roughly jostled forwards, and wondered briefly if Twigg had harbored any particular grudges against Bootstrap Bill, apart from Bootstrap condemning him to the curse and all. The wooden-eyed pirate snickered dementedly behind the smith, whose keen eyes swept the glistening cavern as he was was pushed and shoved. _All those coins and jewels, gold and silver, ducats and pieces of eight, coral necklaces and jasper rings, emerald-encrusted sword hilts... _Will thought, both captivated and horror-struck by what he saw. Blood money, filthy lucre, and pirate plunder, true- but they did glimmer so...

Someone cuffed him on the back of the head, hard enough to leave a bruise, and Will obediently went back to staring straight ahead, as he was marched through the puddles and up the mountain of loot. He felt the cold coins clink under his toes, and fall into the gaps of his buckled shoes, scraping against his wet stockings.

Captain Barbossa, ever the thespian, loomed at the top of the mound, just behind the pale stone of the cursed Aztec chest, loitering in the shadow of his dramatic hat. There was a stone knife clutched in his black, fingerless glove.

Will strove to keep his dignity, standing up straight and defiant. But the pirates behind him- Twigg and Koehler, if he remembered right- shoved him over, bending him double over the top of the glyph-carved chest, brimful with bloodstained medallions. Will's head began to swim as he pondered if his last mortal sight would be these grinning skulls of gold and blood. _No. I'll close my eyes. I'll see Elizabeth._

"Debtors are we," Barbossa drawled loudly, his cruel voice echoing off all corners of the swag-stuffed cave. "The Heathen gods demand an exchange: death for life, that's their way, and we bow to it." With that, the impressively-hatted pirate captain yanked the chained medallion off Will's neck, and held it aloft for all to see. "By blood begun, by blood undone..."

Will felt an unearthly cold hand on the back of his stinging neck, and reflexively tried to slap it away, but with his arms pinioned with rope and wrenched tightly behind his back, all he could do was writhe a bit.

Someone ripped his shirt down the front, and then Will felt the knuckles of Barbossa's other hand brush against the corner of his chin, as the chilly blade came to rest against his defenseless neck.

Will drew in one, final breath, and closed his eyes.

He thought of Elizabeth.

Then Barbossa cut his throat.


	14. Cat and Mouse

-Chapter 14: Cat and Mouse-

* * *

Hector Barbossa watched the whelp's bloody-necked body go limp in the arms of his impatient pirate crewmen. They dropped Bootstrap's boy without a second thought, overwhelmed by the sudden feeling of... _feeling_.

For a long moment, the hardened buccaneers all just stood there, savoring every detail- the tang of salt, the odor of old rugs, the whiff of exotic spices, the reek of decaying crab exoskeletons, the peppery scent of smoke from the blazing torches- yes, smells were the most readily noticeable change.

Barbossa's gnarled hand went to his wide pocket; he fished out the flawless, algae-green apple, and held it up to his nose, just smelling. _Tangy, sweet, delicate... I can feel the beat of me own heart again, _Barbossa realized._ I can feel the damp soakin' through me old sea-boots, the warmth of me breath, the scratchy weave of me coat, the waxy smoothness of this here bit of shine..._ Smirking triumphantly, Barbossa crunched a bite out of the green fruit. _Blimey. _The taste was every bit as juicy and toothsome as he'd remembered it, _imagined_ it, these past ten years.

Recalling his unfinished business, Barbossa dropped down on one knee in front of William junior's body, which was crumpled over on the golden swag, against the base of the Aztec chest. Casually, the pirate captain pressed two fingers against Turner's neck. Beneath the streak of hot blood and the sweaty skin, Barbossa felt a frantically racing pulse. _Yep, _the whelp was quite an actor. Handing his bitten apple to the incessantly chirruping capuchin monkey perched on his shoulder, Barbossa glanced around himself, and grabbed the closest scrap of fabric, a glitzy, black silk cravat, with little gold stars. Absently, he started winding the fancy cloth around Turner's limp neck.

"What're ye _doin?" _Mr. Dogear demanded, sounding downright flabbergasted.

"Bandagin' his neck," Barbossa answered calmly.

"_What?" _Twigg snapped in morbid disbelief. The question was echoed several times over, and not just by the cavern walls.

Patiently, Barbossa explained, "Lad's not dead, just passed out from lack o' blood."

"Then guess ye didn' do the _job_ right!" growled Bos'un, scrunching up his African facial scars menacingly. Circling around the treasure mound a few paces so that the Aztec chest wasn't blocking his trajectory, he leveled his cocked gun up the mound, aiming at Turner.

Promptly whipping out his own flintlock, Barbossa cocked and fired at Bos'un's gun, shattering it to shards. "Oh, I was _goin'_ to," the captain began in a snarly tone, standing up and staring down his out-of-line crewman, who was curling his gunpowder-scorched hand into a fist. "Right up till I saw that _look_ on his pretty-boy face, jus' before the end. Turner's whelp was prepared ta die peaceable, with a clean conscience- fool lad was prob'ly expectin' Paradise. Consider _careful_ now, mates- after the_ ten_ years of hell Bootstrap put us through- a simple slit throat is a powerful short ending, far, _far, _too quick. We ought ta give Bootstrap's spawn his proper dose of hell first, aye?" Barbossa's decaying teeth split into a wicked grin, as he added, "Let him _languish._"

Slowly, the crew started nodding, and grinning too, as they comprehended the sense of their speech-loving captain's words.

Sweeping his slitted teal sleeves out to his sides in a grand gesture, Barbossa crowed triumphantly, "Gents, we are freed from our purgatory! Our anguish is a thing o' the past! We_ live_ again! Celebratories are in order! Rum, roast chicken, broiled eel, scones and dainties for all!"

The monkey postponed its nibbling to interject a victorious screech.

Cheering raucously, the famished pirates began clearing out of the cave in short order.

Koehler, who'd always hated Bootstrap even before the mutiny, paused to land Turner a sharp kick as he passed; then, tossing his black dreadlocks over his shoulders with an bestial grunt, he charged back to the ship with the rest of them.

All except Barbossa, who remained, munching the second apple from his pocket. "I know I only gave ye a paltry paper-cut, lad- I _know _ye're faking," he drawled slowly, between well-chewed bites. "And unlucky fer ye, I find _revenge _sweeter than any scones."

The whelp remained as stiff as a corpse, as placid as pond-water. _He should be in theater, _Barbossa thought wryly. Although the kid had been sailing with Jack, he had no clear mark of a pirate on him- no, Turner had 'goodness' and 'innocence' stamped all over his young face like a tattoo.

_Lad's probably never killed man in cold blood, or kissed a lass without her express permission, _Barbossa guessed snidely. Fleetingly, the black-hearted old captain wondered if there were a way to corrupt that- to turn Turner into a _real_ pirate, make him do piratical actions he'd be ashamed of, and _then_ kill him- slowly, and painfully, and with a lot less hope of Heaven._ But the crew'll have none of that, _Barbossa knew. _Aye, _Turner's young life was practically foredoomed to end tonight... _So, may as well make his life as hellish as possible in the meanwhile._

"Tis been a sore devilish bane, this curse," the hatted captain sighed dramatically. "I've felt hollow, like a shadow, fer oh... the longest time..." Turning around speculatively, Barbossa side-stepped into a shaft of moonlight, while watching his reflection in the large dressing mirror propped against one of the far cave walls. It was downright exhilarating to see his own, natural face mirrored in the moonlight, instead of some skull-eyed, graveyard creature. Still with his back to the whelp , Barbossa inquired nastily past the damp, furry monkey on his shoulder, "Did ye know that Bootstrap Bill pleaded for his life before I sank him? Begged. _Implored. _Quite pathetic, really." It was a lie of course- Barbossa was just trying to provoke some reaction from his 'guest'. "However," the captain went on, "as I'm in a jollisome, listening sorta mood, perhaps were ye to _beg_ likewise- I _may_ be inclined ta be lenient."

In the corner of the mirror, Barbossa saw Turner nab the stone knife from atop the chest, and quickly yank it through the ropes tying his hands behind him. So, when the whelp threw the knife at his spine, Barbossa was expecting it, and spinning on the heel of his boot, he deflected the weapon easily with his cutlass, sending a sharp ringing through the caves as steel hit stone.

The monkey retreated up behind the feather on its master's hat in alarm, babbling shrilly.

"Shall I take that as a no?" Barbossa jeered, scattering coins and trinkets as he advanced on the now-weaponless whelp.

"Filthy _blaggard_," Turner hissed, while staggering backwards down the treasure mound in retreat, glancing desperately around for something to defend himself with. Kicking a jeweled music box aside, and snatching a heavy brass candlestick from under it, he swung its ornate square base in front of him, blocking a hefty blow from Barbossa's cutlass. But as the whelp tried to twist free from their weapon-lock, he tripped on a string of blue pearls behind his heel, skidded the rest of the way down the treasure heap, and stumbled backwards into a shallow puddle of water.

Cornering him effortlessly, Barbossa gave the dazed whelp a sharp nick on the cheek with his cutlass-point, then shifted the point to the whelp's scratched throat, just under the chin. "A wiser fellow would've filched a cursed coin instead of a knife, when he had the chance..." Barbossa informed him derisively. But, noticing that the cut on Turner's cheek wasn't bleeding properly, Barbossa narrowed his yellow eyes suspiciously. He stabbed his sword experimentally through the kid's shoulder.

The whelp didn't cry out, or even flinch, and there still wasn't nearly enough blood.

"Ah," Barbossa concluded, "ye _did_." A cruel thought sprang to mind- _Why not take young Bootstrap junior ta sea, keep him locked up, bring him out and shoot him or torture him whene'er the crew need cheerin' up, an' let him live miserable and cursed for oh, say... ten years? _But the whelp had already proven himself an escape artist. _Nah,_ Barbossa decided, _can't risk havin' a vengeful, spirited, __undead__ kid like that around. We torture him a day or two, and then he's dead. That's it._

Leaning down on his cutlass-hilt, driving the point deep between a crack in the seaweed-clogged rocks to keep the whelp's shoulder pinned down, Barbossa pried the skull-faced coin from between the whelp's shaky fingers, and swiped it on the blood seeping out from under the black silk cravat wrapped around the lad's neck. Sauntering back up the pile of loot to the Aztec chest, Barbossa nonchalantly flipped the bloody coin in.

Having pulled out the sword the moment Barbossa's back was turned, the whelp came charging up from behind-

-Predicting this, Barbs swung his flintlock over his shoulder, and shot Turner in the foot, stopping him dead in his tracks, and making him involuntarily collapse to one knee. This time, there was quite the proper amount of blood. Stepping on his fallen cutlass before Turner could snatch for it again, Barbossa smugly leveled his pistol squarely at the wounded lad's skull.

Turner looked like a hunted animal, bristling like a cornered cat. His soft, dark eyes were brim-ful of loathing, and as defiant as ever, as he glowered keenly over the loaded barrel of the flintlock.

"If I might ask, what _were_ yer plans- escape?" Barbossa scoffed. "_Where_ would ye go? Who on God's green earth or the devil's waters would come lookin fer _ye_?"

As if on cue, the clap of cannon-fire ripped through the night air.

A half-moment later, Mr. Twigg came rushing in on his gangly legs, gasping out, "Sparrow's crew on the Pearl has escaped, the _devil_ knows how, and are firin' on the caves as we spea-"

-He was cut off mid-sentence, by a cannonball bashing through his very un-cursed ribcage. It wasn't a pretty sight.

"Aye... what_ he_ said," added the balding Mr. Pintel, darting behind the cover of a stalagmite. At least nine more of the crew scurried in after him, looking dazed, and keeping their heads low.

"Course of action, Cap'n?" Half-blind Hawksmoor asked nervously.

Barbossa thought hastily. There was no way in Hades his crew would go near the coins in the chest again, even to make themselves invincible. But Barbossa was distracted from answering his impatient, edgy crew by a sudden realization- Turner was missing. The captain whipped his hatted head around in all directions, like a seasick parrot. There, in the gleam of an abandoned torch, by the back tunnels, vanishing into a narrow tunnel mouth, he spotted a shadow. A shadow with backwards-jointed legs.

"_AFTER HIM!"_ Barbossa hollered venomously.

Maybe, just _maybe,_ that backward-legged, trotting shadow was a trick of the light, but Barbossa had a feeling something stranger was to blame. Yes, he had a feeling... a _feeling..._


	15. Fiasco

Author's Note:

To all my fantastic reviewers: thank you! You have _no_ clue how encouraging and inspirational your words have been to me! I'd honestly have dropped this fic long ago without your continual interest and support. (also, I do apologize for the pathetically long lag-time between chapters).

Best wishes to you all! ;)

* * *

-Chapter 15: Fiasco-

* * *

Will couldn't stop staring.

The horned creature under his arm was jostling him along at a breakneck speed through the slippery cave, supporting him- sort of- so he wouldn't have to put too much weight on his mangled foot. Of course, it still _hurt_ like 'tarnation. Will's work-clothes were vexingly heavy and waterlogged from when he'd fallen in that puddle, but his rescuers were even wett_er. _

Grateful, but enormously confused at being so randomly saved from a torturous doom, Will whispered emptily, "You're a- a _faun."_

"_You're _heavy," the sopping faun shot back. "And slow. Hurry!"

"Well, sheesh, it's not_ his _fault he got all shot up and stabbed!" the little girl leading the way hissed over her short shoulder, at the faun. "I'm ever _so_ sorry we're late, Will," she continued breathlessly, in her trim, proper little voice, "but there was a storm and-" Stopping short mid-sentence, the lass whirled to face him, her eyes wide, and a finger pressed up against her dewdrop lips. Grabbing Will's sleeve, she hastily pulled him and the faun behind a wide limestone pillar.

Nine vicious pirates hurtled and splashed past the three hiders, through the shapeless tunnel, throwing glaring saffron torch-light in all directions. It gleamed reflectively off the wet limestone, staining the blue rock orange.

Will kept as stone-stiff as a gargoyle, not daring to breathe. He wasn't too concerned about his _own_ safety- but the blacksmith felt instantly protective of these two odd, short, wet youngsters. Even if one of them was snappish. And had hooves.

About half a minute after the pirates had vanished noisily into the far end of the damp tunnel, the lass released the tense breath she'd been holding. Her huge eyes roamed over the bloody stain soaking Will's vest shoulder, the blood trickling down from the gold-starred black necktie, the hole in his stocking, the blood collecting in his buckled shoe. Wincing sympathetically, she growled softly, "Oh, _gosh_... Oh, if_ only_ I had my cordial!" It was a tiny whisper, not meant to be heard. But they were stuffed tightly behind the slickly dripping rocks, and only inches away from each other, so lips and ears were in close proximity.

_What good would __cordial__ do? _Will wondered vaguely. "I'm fine," he murmured quaveringly, mostly trying to convince himself of that. But the shudder convulsing through his punctured shoulder muscles contradicted his words. "How- how do you know my name?" _How does everyone know my name?_

She held her finger up to her lips again.

Will nodded. _Not the time for talk. _He knew that. He just wasn't thinking clearly._ Probably something to do with blood loss. Hallucinations can also be brought on by blood loss, right? _he thought, glancing slantwise down at the huge, furry, goat ears beneath his armpit.

Suddenly, a tremendous, crumbling crash echoed out from the main treasure cave. Ripples pulsed through the puddles underfoot.

'What was that?' the girl mouthed silently to the faun, who shrugged back at her, under Will's arm.

'I'll check,' the faun mouthed back.

Scowling, the girl dipped her head lower and mouthed something Will didn't catch.

Snorting, the faun whispered irritably, "Not likely."

"Your hooves will make too much noise, and I'm quicker," the girl said in a very shallow breath, also breaking into whispers again, as the searching pirates started bickering loudly about something at the far end of the tunnel.

Before Will could reach out to stop her, the girl darted hastily back towards the treasure cave. Six moments later, she dashed back even hastier, her stockings nearly slipping on the rocks.

"It's Captain Sparrow!" she hissed frantically, snatching the faun's fuzzy wrist. "Come _on,_ Grassroot, we have to help him! Sorry, Will- we'll be right back!"

Then the little girl and the faun- _Grassroot, had she called him?-_ hurried off, just like that. _Sparrow? Will _puzzled incredulously. _Here? __How__? Hadn't Barbossa __marooned__ him and Elizabeth?_

Well, at any rate, Will wasn't about to let two people half his height (well, if the faun could be _called_ a person) face off against bloodthirsty pirates on their own.

Just as he was about to slip off after them, the nine pirates at the end of the tunnel came rushing back. Will shrank back behind the water-warped limestone, and waited until eight of them had passed. Then, as the ninth pirate clomped by, Will subtly seized the bobbing hilt of a cutlass out of his sword-belt. The pirate continued on, oblivious. Waiting just until the ruffians turned the bend in the tunnel, Will sprang out of hiding and hurried after them. His bloody foot made him hobble pathetically, and he was forced to use the cutlass as a crutch.

Reaching the cave-mouth somewhat tardily, Will peeked in. He saw gold coins, blue dust, and crumpled, boulder-like chunks of rock, lit by a LOT of moonlight. _Was that hole made from cannon-fire? _Will wondered, gazing up at the impressively enormous gap in one corner of the cave ceiling.

"By thunder, Jack, how in _Davy Jones Locker_ did you escape that island _again?"_ growled a gruff voice, making Will glance down sharply. It was Barbossa, locking blades with a dreadlocked pirate in a scarlet bandanna.

"Flew," Barbossa's foe retorted snarkily, twisting out of the sword-lock and into the moonlight, with a glinty grin. Yep, it was Jack Sparrow, alright.

"Yer off the edge of the map, mate..." Barbossa snarled, as he pursued Jack behind a long line of stalagmites. "Here, there be monsters!"

"Aye, just look!" Jack exclaimed, snatching up a wide, gilded, dressing mirror propped against the curved wall, and swinging it in front of him as a shield. "Stuff of nightmares, you are."

"_Were," _Barbossa corrected, sidestepping directly into a gleaming shaft of moonlight.

"Huh," Jack replied curiously, peeking out from behind the jaunty corner of the mirror. "Broke the curse after all, did we? Elizabef will be heartbroke. That would make you... what's the word- _vulnerable?"_

With a toothy sneer, Barbossa stabbed his cutlass through the dusty mirror-glass, shattering it into spectacularly glittering shards, and nicking his knuckles on the glass. They bled.

Blinking, close-set, monkey eyes peeked out from behind Barbossa's neck, as the critter let out a low, clicking hoot.

"_Ouch. _Seven years bad luck, by the bye," Jack commented teasingly. "Sad, really, I imagine ten years was bad enough, eh?"

"_For Aslan!"_ hollered a boyish voice on the other side of the treasure heap, echoing off the puddles and coins.

"Oh, and _speaking_ of monsters..." Jack added.

Following Jack's gaze, Will spotted the faun- Grassroot- and the girl, fending off four of the pirates.

"Lawk, what IS that thing?" asked the bald pirate with the emerald-studded swordbelt, the bloke who'd been mopping the Pearl's brig back when Will was locked up there, who'd taken such _relish_ in telling Will all about Bootstrap's watery demise. The baldy's squinty yellow eyes were stretched with amazement.

"I fink it's Greek..." added the wooden-eyed pirate, jumping backward, as Grassroot's nimbly scissoring blades whistled through the air beside his gangly knees.

"Oh, I'm much better with _daggers_..." the girl groaned irritably, as she dodged a blow from a shovel.

But in Will's opinion, the youngsters were doing astoundingly well. Grassroot wasn't just blindly swinging his two swords around- he was feinting and sparring like a true swordsmaster; and even the girl was wielding her rusty blade like a practiced fighter. Together, the two were driving the pirates back with unusual skill and finesse. They were actually _winning_.

_Well, mostly, _the blacksmith added to himself.

Hobbling over to the fray, ducking a pistol-shot as he went, Will swung a wiry, hunching pirate's sword aside with his own stolen blade, just in time to save the girl from becoming even _shorter_. She bumped into Will's back, and for a moment, he and she were back-to-hip, as the pirates surrounded them. Reaching back, Will hooked an arm through her elbow, and pulled her even closer, keeping his blade outstretched.

"Where'd you learn to fight like that?" Will asked over his throbbing shoulder. "You're fantastic, for a girl!"

"For a _girl?"_ the girl repeated wryly.

"For anyone," Will admitted, blocking another sword-thrust, and turning in a tight circle, trying to keep the girl in the safest position possible.

"You're not bad either," she replied humorously, pulling her rusty cutlass defensively up in front of her odd shirt and striped necktie. "For an invalid."

"We're still swamped," the faun growled caustically from a few yards away, as he battled his way towards them.

"Grassroot, behind you!" the girl yelped, seconds too late.

A thickly-woven fishnet was flung over the faun's horned head, and his dainty hooves were yanked out from under him. The nearby pirates lost no time in pinning the net down with boots and cutlass-points.

"Blimey, it's a_ satyr!"_ one of them yelped.

"Fink the proper term is, 'faun'," Wooden-eye corrected his mate, as another pirate reached down and pried the two queerly-wrought sword-hilts out of Grassroot's clenched fists.

"I've heard it said both ways- what's the difference?" a third pirate asked.

"Fauns is goat-men, satyrs is ugly, _philanderin'_ goat-men," Wooden-eye specified.

"Grassroot!" the girl exclaimed desperately. Her elbow slid free from Will's grip, and she sped and stumbled towards her captured friend.

A snarling blond charged up on Will's left just then, but as Will whirled to face him, the blond accidentally speared himself through the chest on the blacksmith's sword. Wild, pale, frenzied eyes glared back at Will, and the pirate uttered a strangled, garbled word that sounded unnervingly like a voodoo death-curse. Then the freaky blond fell backwards like a sack of cement- but since Will's sword-hilt had snagged on the large brass buttons on the blond's coat, Will was jerked down as well. Cold water splashed up in his face.

Shakily, Will shoved the corpse backwards off of his blade, and struggled to his feet. He'd lost track of the girl in the confusion- but as his eyes swept the cavern, he caught sight of Jack, who was halfway up the treasure mound, still sword-fighting Barbossa.

Neither of the hell-bent duelists noticed what Will saw- Barbossa's huge African bo'sun, curling his dark finger around the trigger of a musket, leveled straight at Jack's head...

Will didn't think. He just hurled his sword. It flew deftly, gouging deeply into the bosun's side just as the musket fired, which fouled up the shot that would've killed Jack.

Of course, this left Will weaponless; an easy target. As he hastily staggered around the outer edges of the treasure heap, seeking something that might work as a weapon, a knotted horsewhip abruptly flung over his eyes, and around his scratched neck. It yanked back viciously against the gold-starred cravat, constricting around Will's windpipes.

As Will fought to free himself from the stranglehold, a rodent-like voice sneered in his ear, "I _hate_ long goodbyes, don't you?"

Will shoved the spur of his elbow back hard into the strangler's armpit.

Retaliating brutally, the pirate stamped on Will's shot foot, making the smith collapse to one knee with a pained hiss.

However, just then another pirate, in a blue coat and a bluer bandanna, jogged by. "Hey, ease off, Dogear!" the newcomer barked, smacking the strangler on the side of his greasy-haired head. "Cap'n wanted to _torture _him, remember?"

"Spoilsport," Dogear spat. But the horsewhip loosened an inch.

"Oh come _on,_ mate, ya wanna tell _Barbossa_ ya let the pup bleed to death?" sighed the newcomer, smacking Dogear again. Tugging off his long bandanna, the newcomer tied the blue fabric firmly around Will's blood-soaked shoulder. "We ain't immortal no more, dimwit!"

As Will struggled to force air into his lungs, he heard a high-pitched shriek to the left. Squinting dizzily past the pinprick stars fogging up his vision, Will caught sight of the screaming girl.

The hunching pirate was gripping her by her hair, and holding a jagged knife up by her nose. "Shut up, brat, if ya value yer tongue!" the huncher warned crossly. The girl's screeches quieted into a low whimper.

"Let- her go!" Will choked out.

"Hold still you, I gotta patch up yer foot now," the newcomer ordered Will. "Dogear, gimme yer hankie," he added, smacking Dogear's knee.

"But I like this one! Aw, _fine..." _Dogear muttered, tugging a silk hankie out of his vest pocket and grudgingly handing it down to his mate.

But as the newcomer was kneeling beside Will, distracted with bandaging his foot, Dogear snatched both ends of his whipcord in one fist, pulled a pistol out of his mate's coat pocket, and shot him cleanly through the skull.

"Been wantin' ta do that fer_ever,_" sneered Dogear, as his mate toppled mutely.

The crisp wail of metal against metal tugged Will's gaze back to Jack, just in time to see Barbossa's sword slide far up Jack's blade- and then swerve inward, leaving a long, red gash in Jack's sword-arm. Kicking Jack in the stomach, Barbossa knocked him over, sending Jack's sword skipping merrily down the treasure heap. As Jack dizzily staggered to his feet, Barbossa snatched the pistol tucked in Jack's belt, took a step back, and pointed the gun-barrel right between Jack's shifty eyes.

The monkey's black fingers were curled in the fraying ends of Barbossa's colorful sash, and it swayed there playfully, rotating its fuzzy-cheeked head like an owl, and pulling its lips back into a spiky grin.

"Ye should've put this bullet in yer own skull a long time ago, Jack," Barbossa drawled.

"I was saving it," replied Jack, staring cross-eyed at the weapon he'd carried for ten years. Glancing over at Will, the faun, and the girl, Jack added dryly, "And on the note of _saving_ things- the_ idea_ of me heroically sacrificing myself so's you three could get away, was, in _fact_, so's you three could _get away._"

"How were _you_ trying to rescue _us?" _Grassroot demanded acidly, as his net was hoisted into the moonlight, towards the rest of the pirates' prisoners.

"What, you thought I was just clumsy and fell through the roof on _accident_, did you?" Jack scoffed. After a heartbeat pause, he added black-sheepishly, "Wewl, I wasn't."

"Where's Elizabeth?" Will asked Jack fiercely, writhing in his captor's gorilla-like grip. He felt Dogear's horsewhip yank back harder on his scratched neck, warningly.

"Oh, hullo Will," said Jack, as if noticing him for the first time. "Fancy meeting _you_ here. By the way, thanks muchly for puttin' in a good word for me when it counted," he added, dripping with sarcasm. "I _appreciated_ it."

"Barbossa would've- marooned you no matter- no matter _what_ I'd said," Will struggled to retort.

"Still would've been a nice gesture."

"Came back _now,_ didn't I?"

"Huzzah," said Jack, as flatly as ironed parchment.

"Jack, _where's_ Elizabeth?" Will repeated viciously.

"Let _go! _Deuced _rapscallions! _What have you done with Will? _Wretches!_" came a shrill, approaching voice from within the front corridor.

"Um," said Jack, "I'm gonna go out on a limb here, and say..." He pointed meaningfully at the front corridor.

From the cave-mouth, the pirate with the hammer emerged, followed by his pal named Grapple, whose signature grappling hook was hooked around Elizabeth's slim neck, as he dragged her forwards like the catch of the day. Scorch-marks stained her white, lace-up shift; and her almond hair fell over her neck and bust in octopus swirls, pinned beneath the hook. She looked like a porcelain doll that had been played with too harshly.

"Will!" she yelped, as her chocolate eyes locked with his.

"Miss Swann!" Will exclaimed, ignoring the rough knots digging into his neck. He had a hard time paying attention to _anything_ else whenever _she_ was around.

"Oh Will, you're _alive_, thank God!" Elizabeth gasped jubilantly.

"Don't be thankin' Him _quite_ yet, missy," Barbossa sneered. Turning his glare on the pirate holding her, he growled, "_What _happened, Grapple? _Why _aren't ye guardin' the Pearl, as ye were told?"

"Mos'ly I reckon cuz it's ablaze," Grapple grunted. "Also, cuz I don't trust lockin' this here _dreamy _little strumpet in the brig with the rest of Sparraw's crew, now that she sprung 'em once already. Caught the bloody dame torchin' the galley with the victory rum- the rest of the boys are still tryna put out the blaze."

This news caused a wave of protests, groans, and curses from Barbossa's band. "She burnt the rum?" someone moaned.

"You_ burnt _the_ Pearl_?" Jack hissed, flicking his head away from the gun-barrel pointed at it, to glare at Elizabeth.

"Yes, so what- Will, Will are you alright?" she called over the grappling hook frantically.

Will merely clawed at the knots in the horsewhip, trying to pull them away from his neck long enough to answer.

"What in the deepest circles of hell did ya do _that _fer?" Jack demanded, moving closer to her.

This annoyed Will greatly, since Barbossa shifted the gun to follow Jack, which put Elizabeth in the line of fire too.

"It was as black as cinders anyway!" she argued hotly, mirroring Jack's scowl. "And it's _not _like the Pearl isn't still cursed anyway- I mean, just look at the hull! That tub of coffin nails would've sunk aeons ago if not for the preternatural Aztec forces keeping it afloat! I daresay no mortal force could sink it- besides which, _your _plan obviously flunked grandly. Furthermore, we needed a signal to alert the Royal navy!"

"No, we, bloody, well, _didn't!" _Jack snarled darkly. _"_Who says we have to bring the lobsterbacks into this?"

"I do."

"You're daft."

"Oh, _I'm_ daft?" Elizabeth repeated, tilting her pointy, delicate chin sarcastically.

"And repetitive."

"Belay that jabber!" Barbossa ordered menacingly, sauntering up to Jack again. "Now Jack, I reckon I've been unusual merciful up till now._ Twice_ now, I've let ye off with nary a scratch- _twice_ now, ye've been naught but peaceably marooned..."

"Um- third time's the charm?" said Jack hopefully. His black-rimmed eyes kept slinking longingly towards the Aztec chest. It was mere paces away now, but obviously, he dared not move, not while Barbossa's finger was on the trigger.

Barbossa's monkey knotted up its fuzzy eyebrows, as it swung back and forth, squinting sadly through its lampblack eyes.

Jack's pistol didn't shift an inch.

"Last words?" Barbossa inquired congenially.

Jack held up his sooty forefingers at cheek-level, and said blithely, "Isn't this a picnic?"

"Odd last words."

"Look at us now," Jack went on, moving his hands and arms illustratively as he spoke, "here we are, curse broke, _mounds _of swag, fastest ship in the Caribbean, fine food, good rum, salty wenches,"

"Hey!" Elizabeth cut in indignantly.

Ignoring her, Jack prompted, "Why not call it a draw, and make it a vacation? Pirate holiday, eh? Lots of festive fun, lots less blood, music and song and drinks all around, wouldn't that be dandy?"

"Oh, we'll have us some _fun_ alright, Jack..." Barbossa countered, shooting a malicious glance at Will, then a curious glance at the other prisoners, particularly the netted faun.

"Besides, we ain't _got _no rum no more," one of the pirates pointed out, pointing to Elizabeth accusingly. "_She_ burnt it!"

Finally working up his nerve, Bos'un yanked Will's sword out from where it had pierced him above his thick belt, roaring in raw, animal pain as he did. "I say we shoot 'em _ALL,_ the scurvy louses!" Bos'un bellowed shakily, wiping the bloody sword-blade off on the knee of his sailcloth trousers, and fixing Will with a violent, deathly glare.

Will sighed through his clenched teeth. He was _so_ sure he'd killed that lout.

"Not _all,"_ Grapple countered lasciviously, leering past his grappling hook's barbs, and planting a rough kiss below Elizabeth's ear.

"_Cur,"_ she shot back venomously, wrinkling up her elegant nose, and squirming like a wet cat in Grapple's sweat-shiny, muscular arms.

Shifting his hook, he kissed her again, this time on her pouty lips.

Then she spat in his face.

"Ain't she just _luscious?_" Grapple guffawed, grinning from earring to earring.

"Hey, I said_ I_ got dibs on the poppet!" argued a pirate in a green felt hat, with a badly-stitched scar draping down his neck.

"You got dibs on the Negress wench in the brig, _remember?" _Grapple countered gruffly.

"Unhand her, you fiends!" Will snapped loudly, struggling to get up off his knee. But he slipped on the wet coins, and the whipcord around his neck tightened again. Also, Dogear kicked him in the lower spine, making him stiffen in agony.

The two pirates squabbling over Elizabeth looked up at Will, snickered obnoxiously, then went back to arguing in low, harsh tones.

_Lecherous rotters, _Will thought acidly.

Cutting into the noisy chatter, Jack resumed his negotiations with Barbossa. "As far as _I _can see, mate," he said, "you've got all the cards. I mean, you're really on the winning side here. My ship, my crew, my new crew, all this loot, a genuine Greek faun, the Governor of Jamaica's daughter- oh, did I mention she was a governor's daughter?, Bootstrap's whelp, me..."

Barbossa made a scoffing sound in the back of his throat. "I see ye've kept yer silver tongue well polished these past ten years, Jack," he rasped ironically. "But yer logic's a bit rusty. What makes _you_ an asset?"

"Oh come now, Hector, d'ya think this is the first treasure I've found?" Jack asked cheekily, tainting his words with a tone of alluring mystery.

"_I_ found it," Barbossa retorted.

"Using bearings stolen from _me. _Me, I'm sorta a treasure scout, ya might say. I know the whereabouts of all _sort _of stashes, troves, relics, wonders,"

"_Curses?"_ Barbossa interrupted resentfully.

"Wewl," said Jack, tossing his bandanna-ends over his shoulder flippantly, "that was just you and your bloody rashness, again. Impatience kills. Or curses- what have you. I was right ta be wary, weren't I? To hold off a bit?"

Cynically, Barbossa asked, "So what _else_ d'ya know, Jack?"

Jack's devilish mustache perked up under a lopsided grin. "Lots! I'm foxy," he cooed. "See, for one thing, I'd advise you ta bring the Aztec chest along _wiv_ you on the Pearl, and during your raids and whatnot, you all grab a piece, and every bloke's immortal until you've made off safe wiv the loot, then toss the coins back in, and every bloke gets to _enjoy_ the loot, _and _gets off wivout a scratch! Wewl, apart from a pinprick, anyhow." Narrowing his eyes dramatically, and shifting his sharp jawbone, Jack added importantly, "The curse is a _tool_, Barbossa. Ply it."

Thoughtfully, Barbossa tilted up Jack's pistol, letting it rest against his own shoulder. He didn't bother un-cocking it, though.

Jack pressed his palms flat together in front of his face, dipping a short, grateful little bow.

But Will's keen eyes strayed elsewhere. Even with his vision freckled by lack of oxygen, the blacksmith was still more observant than anyone else in the caves. Which is why Will was the _only_ one who noticed Grassroot's slender, tawny, arm sneak through a hole in the net, reaching for a dagger sticking out from the belt of one of the pirates holding up his net.

Abruptly, the dagger tugged through the net's heavy weave, and Grassroot hit the cave floor rolling, jangling the bead-capped braids on his arms. Back-flipping effortlessly, he sprang up to his hooves, and twisted his new dagger cockily in front of him, with his long ears tucked backwards, and a look on his spritely face that said he was ready to take on anything.

But what he _wasn't_ prepared for was the tasseled curtain under his hooves, or the possibility that one of the pirates would yank it out from under him. The faun was toppled, pinned down, and promptly disarmed.

"Watch that one sharp, boys," Barbossa ordered.

"Aye, we could sell it to a carnival!" the wooden-eyed pirate suggested excitably. "We could start our _own_ carnival!"

"Folk'd pay good coinage ta see a... _curiosity_ like ye..." Barbossa informed Grassroot musingly.

"Because, of course, you're all just_ so_ very poor," scoffed Elizabeth, letting her chocolate eyes slide sarcastically over the glimmering cavern.

Grassroot slammed his horns into the shin of the pirate pinning him down, who yelped, and kicked the faun's willowy shoulders roughly .

"Leave him _be!" _yelped the little girl, bobbing awkwardly on her tiptoes, since she was still trying to keep her hair from being yanked out by the hunching pirate who'd captured her. "Bullies!"

"Oh, come off it, Hector," Jack scoffed humorously, "you don't need the bloomin' _faun_ ta start a freak show! Just paint the road-sign ta say: SPECTACULAR SKELETON SAILORS- CAN'T DIE, CAN'T FEEL, CAN TAPDANCE WITHOUT SHOES AND USE THEIR FINGER-BONES AS CASTANETS. ONLY THREE SHILLINGS PER SHOWING. PLEASE DON'T FEED THE MONKEY, IT'S TORTURE."

"Aye," said Barbossa, in a tone as thick, heavy, and cold as a pot of last week's gruel. "It _was_ torture. Not a cat in hell's chance we're goin' back to it."

"Oh, but just _think_ of all the gullible crowds ye'll gyp out of the contents of their pockets with yer sensational skeletony act!" Jack argued brightly.

Hopping back up Barbossa's arm, the monkey chittered, cackled, babbled, and cheeped, trying to join the conversation.

"I think tis safe ta say every salt here 'd rather risk death than willingly bring such a devilish bane upon themselves again," Barbossa sneered softly, as he stroked the capuchin's jangly little vest.

"Is that true?" Jack turned slowly towards his mutinous old crew. "Would you wreally rather _die?_ Maybe you've been cursed too long, but allow me to remembrance you- all it takes is a bullet. _One_ bullet. _One_ shrapnel shard. One _stab_ in the back. Then- game's up. Fer good."

"'E's got a point..." the baldy agreed nervously, subconsciously rubbing his bristly chest, where Barbossa had shot him earlier.

"I have many points," Jack retorted, stretching his spine imperially. "And here's another pointer-" swinging back towards Barbossa, Jack added, "-don't kill the whelp."

Snickers and snorts cropped up from amongst the crew.

Barbossa's lips wrinkled into an amused, cynical look. "Fraid the fate of Bootstrap's spawn is sealed," he rasped.

Jack sighed melodramatically, tossing his trinket-strung head to one side in exasperation. "Oh, what'll it be, thumbscrews, yardarm, woolding, hot gridirons, crushed fingerbones, slit ears, blood an' screams?"

Barbossa looked over to his blood-bent crew. "What d'ye say ta all of the above?"

"AYE!" they cheered uproariously, Bos'un loudest of all.

Looking back to Jack with a mock-helpless shrug, Barbossa replied simply, "Majority vote."

"Oh, you_ leave_ Will be, you_ filthy,_ gutter-trash-" Elizabeth commanded waspishly, but Grapple silenced her with another lusty kiss.

Will wished on every star winking above the crumpled cave roof that he could kill Grapple, _now._ But at the moment, the smith was almost too weak to keep his head up.

Jack frowned thinly. "Now whatever happened to, 'Waste not'? The kid's a brilliant swordsman, expert escape artist, _blacksmith_, and you'll be needin' one of those wiv the state you've got _my_ ship into- lovely singing voice, grand improviser, and-"

"An' I killed his father," Barbossa interrupted dryly. "He'll ne'er join. An' I wouldn't trust him if 'e did. An-"

"Hum, well, yes, there is that..." Jack interrupted.

"-An it's _my_ ship," Barbossa finished possessively.

"Debatable," Jack retorted snidely. "Call me morbid, but I've been _dyin' _ta know- out of curiosity, how_ did_ ya murder me old mate Bill? Snuck up behind and stabbed him in the back like the yellow-blooded cur ya are, did we?"

"Ye remember Bootstrap Bill's pigeon?" Barbossa asked reminescently. "After we found this accursed isle ten years back, and learned we had ta return Cortez's gold ta free ourselves from our torment, Bootstrap, he sends that pet bird of his off with one of the Aztec coins- sent it off ta his sweetheart in England, he did. Fool maneuver it were, stuck_ hisself_ cursed too, the dotard, but Bill was spiteful, he didn't care none. So, quite fairly, we sunk the blighter, tied ta a cannon by his prized bootstraps, as it were."

"Huh," said Jack emotionlessly. "Original."

"But, you didn't_ really _kill him," the little girl piped up speculatively, still straining to stay on her stockinged tiptoes. "Since he was cursed like you, Bootstrap Bill probably found some way off that cannon in ten years time-_ I_ sure would- and chances are he's still alive."

Silence.

All eyes turned to the girl.

"What?" she said uncomfortably. "Honestly, has _no one _else thought of this?"

"Actually..." said one pirate.

"Um..." said another.

"Huh..." a third added.

"Who_ are_ ye, lass?" Barbossa asked, fixing the girl with a puzzled scowl. "I don't recall ye."

"Lucy Pevensie," she replied awkwardly, pursing her lips and scrunching her eyebrows up at the pirate pulling her hair.

"_Queen_ Lucy Pevensie," Jack added in majestically. "Of the _magical_ other-world of _Narvia._"

"_Narnia!"_ Lucy corrected briskly.

"Nah," said Jack, snickering dismissively, "to tell ye true, Barbossa, mate- 'Her Highness' there is just a bit of flotsam what washed up on me spit-of-an island- a mite touched in the head, she is, swallowed too much seawater, pay her no mind. I mean, it's _not_ like there's _really_ a secret passage on my island what leads to her magical world, and it's _not _like said magical world is_ really_ chock-full with awe-inspiring spectacles, and enchanted wonderments, and treasures so fantabulous they make _this-_" Here, Jack paused to sweepingly wave a cloth-wrapped hand at the surrounding cave, "-look like a handful of haypennies by compare." His eyes glittered impishly below his bandanna. "Not like that at_ awl."_

"Yer bluffing," Barbossa deduced, giving Jack's pistol a playful twirl.

"Yer curious," Jack countered tantalizingly.

"Captain_ Sparrow!"_ scolded Lucy Pevensie. "You can't bring these bullies to-" stopping herself short, she stammered, "-um, he's right, I swallowed too much seawater. There's no such place as Narnia."

"There's no such thing as _fauns_ eiver," Wooden-eye pointed out slowly.

Curling its tail around its master's wrinkled neck, the monkey started clapping for no reason, then absently began chewing its toes. _It sure is distracting,_ Will thought.

But his sight was blackening.

"On yer island, ya say?" Barbossa said, sweeping a step closer to Jack.

"Do you know what _else _is on that island?" Elizabeth spoke up, straining her long, bird-like neck to glance over Grapple's grappling hook. "_Rum. _Crates, and crates, of fine, smuggled _rum. _That's how Jack escaped the island when you marooned him there the first time- it's a funny story actually- see, he bartered passage off with some run-runners who-"

"I'd really rather that cat had stayed_ in_ the bag, doll," Jack interrupted, with a comical grimace.

"You simply cannot have a proper pirate celebration without rum, Captain Barbossa," Elizabeth finished primly, ignoring Jack's existence.

"But I thought we dump-" began Grassroot, but catching the withering look from Elizabeth, he said instead, "-Yeah, rum. Lots of rum."

Brushing past Jack, scattering coins below his sea-boots as he passed, Barbossa strolled in front of Elizabeth, and smirked nastily below the shadow of his hat. "Yer stalling."

"You're curious," she purred, echoing Jack.

"Yer amusing." Un-cocking Jack's pistol, Barbossa stuck it in his indigo-yellow sash, and drawled, "Come along, mates. Be they liars or no, we're _long_ overdue fer our victory cruise!"

Will didn't quite catch what happened next.

He was too busy fainting from lack of air and blood.


	16. Dead End

-Chapter 16: Dead End-

* * *

Edmund couldn't help being just a_ bit_ thrilled.

Yeah, it was just a mop. Yeah, his wiry shoulder-blades ached, and his forehead and armpits were slick with sweat, even though it was barely sunup. But he was _actually_ swabbing an _actual _18th century Royal Navy H.M.S. Ship-of-the-line! _I'm a regular time-traveler! _he thought exultantly.

On the other hand, Edmund was furious. Su, and Lu, and Caspian- they could all be cold and drowned by now. Blue and bloated, with tropical fish nibbling at their eyes and toes...

_If only Peter hadn't been too old to return to Narnia,_ Ed thought bleakly. _He__ never would've let everyone get all split up like this- Oh, and if __only__ I'd at __least__ managed to grab Lu before that wave swept her away... what'll I tell Mum when I get back? 'When' might be too optimistic a word,_ Ed corrected, absentmindedly sloshing the drippy, rag-rope mop over his socks. The sudsy water smelled sharply of limes- Edmund had squeezed four of them into the bucket a few hours ago, after scrubbing and drying the last of yesterday's dishes.

The little round citruses were pretty awfully sour, but Ed had finished his mug of lime juice without complaint, after a wrinkled old sailor named Thaddeus had told him more than he'd ever wanted to know about the horrors of scurvy.

Said horrors included: 'ghastly discolored spots, swelled legs, putrid gums, lassitude of strength, swooning with the slightest motion, dejection of the spirits, shiverings, tremblings, being seized with terror at the slightest accident, putrid fevers, pleurisies, the jaundice, violent rheumatic pains, obstinate costiveness, difficulty breathing, ulcers of the worst kind, rotten bones, fungous flesh, scars of wounds which had been healed for many years reopening and bleeding again as if they were fresh, broken bones which had healed years ago fracturing again, and finally, dropping dead without warning.

And hardly anyone ever had the same symptoms.

Oh yeah, and you could drop dead randomly even if you _didn't_ have _any_ symptoms.

But limes helped to counter scurvy- it was an old Dutch trick, Thaddeus had said. _Very talkative geezer, that Thaddeus chap._ But when Edmund had asked him what happened to the Dauntless's last cabin boy, the prune-faced sailor just mumbled some slurred sentence including the words: 'shark', and 'drunk', and 'daft prank', and 'buckets of blood'. Then he'd hastily changed the subject to scrimshaw-carving and fiddlefish.

The mop swished port to starboard, back and forth, like a clock pendulum. Edmund stared fixedly into the nothingness beyond the iridescent soap bubbles. Besides being thrilled and furious, Ed was brainstorming.

_Problem: Navy won't turn ship around to save sisters & friends._

_Reason: Commodore wants to save his girlfriend first._

_Solution: Steal a rowboat. _

It wasn't a very _good_ plan (no matter _which _definition of 'good' you used), but it was all Edmund had. He'd already tried bribing the navigator with his yo-yo, but the impossible twerp hadn't shown the least interest in the spinny, spiffy descendant of Philippine hunting weapons, and wouldn't turn the helm-wheel even one notch to starboard. _Maybe the bribe idea would've worked better if I'd actually __shown__ him the yo-yo..._ Ed pondered. But Ed still wasn't sure where that snide blond officer (who'd also confiscated his rubber band and train ticket) had put the toy.

So rowboat-thieving was the only option. Of course, that brought up a whole slew of new problems...

_Problems:_

_I'm kept busy with chores almost all day._

_How to sneak supplies out of the galley without getting caught?_

_How to lower rowboat into the water without getting caught?_

_Can I lower it on my own?_

_Row it on my own?_

_How will I find my sisters & friends if I do escape? _

_Should I take the Commodore's spyglass? Compass? Too risky?_

Ed thought less and less _of _his plan the more he thought _about _it.

He dunked the mop in the tangy-smelling bucket again, and slowly swished a wet streak toward the ship rails. Casually, Ed snuck a glance over the balustrade, at the rowboats lashed up to the side of the ship- on those short ledges which Thaddeus had called the 'davits'.

_I wouldn't __have__ to lower my getaway boat, maybe,_ Edmund thought optimistically. _I could just cut the ropes loose- hmm, wait, but then there'd be a loud splash, not to mention the rowboat might smack against the Dauntless's hull, or fall into the water at the wrong angle and sink, or the supplies might tip out, or the oars... Nope, I'll need help, Ed decided. Someone else to take turns rowing, if nothing else. But who? Not Norrington, obviously; not his obnoxious lieutenant Gillette, not the enviably steely-armed Mr. Roderick, not Officer Cummings, not the blond officer, not the twerp navigator..._ Groves was nice, but he was a lieutenant too, so he'd be afraid of being demoted or courtmartialled or something for such a lack of discipline as rowboat-thievery. Thaddeus was friendly, but a dreadful gossip. _If I tell __him__ my plan and he __doesn't__ want to help, the whole ship will know. Fast._

In the end, Ed could think of only one possible person. 

_And I'm supposed to swab the brig next anyways._

* * *

"Mirage. I still say it were a mirage."

"They _were _black."

"Trick of the lighting."

"Black as _soot!"_

"Maybe it _was _soot. Maybe they got scorched by lightning, ever think of _that?"_

"But- see here-"

"_Or _some klutz spilled tar on them, or _maybe_ those buccaneers were just employin' scare tactics by dying the sails black to _disguise_ their ship as the Black Pearl, or _even-_ Oh, ahoy there, new cabin boy!"

"Um, ahoy," Edmund echoed distractedly, from behind the mop-pole slung over his throbbing shoulder, as he stepped off the bottom rung of the stairs, into the crisply painted, well-lit Navy brig. He had been hoping for a few _less _lanterns; a few _more_ shadows. It also would've been nice if those two scarlet-jacketed guards hadn't noticed him right off the bat.

But fortunately, they weren't paying him _too_ much attention.

The thinner, brown-eyed officer lowered his eyebrows clandestinely, and, leaning closer to the heftier guard he stated quietly, "I heard Tom Moider say, that during the raid-"

Figuring that now was as good a time as any, Edmund 'accidentally' bumped into the heftier guard. Adventure novels always made it sound so easy. You just bump into the guard, sneakily steal the key-ring from his belt or pocket, and then say, 'oh, pardon me', and continue on your merry way, nothing to it.

In this case, however, the key-ring was scrunched around the wide-buttoned sleeve cuff on the guard's thick wrist, instead of conveniently in a pocket or hooked on a belt.

"Watch it!" the officer yelped, gripping Edmund by the shoulder and shoving him back a step.

Ed realized that there wasn't really _any_ chance of subtly stealing the keys at the moment, so he just stood there awkwardly, leaning against his mop, trying not to look at the keys.

"Now then, he didn't _mean_ to, Mullroy," the thinner guard assured his fellow officer, "he just hasn't got his sea-legs yet- bit of a landlubber, aren't you, lad?"

"I've sailed before," Edmund stated defensively, rubbing his sore shoulder where he'd been shoved.

"Oh, aye?" Mullroy snapped challengingly. Then, irritably, he added, "Shouldn't you be swabbing?"

"Anyhow, as I was saying," the thinner guard rambled on, "about Tom, well, durin' the raid, he cuts off this pirate's leg at the knee-"

"So? What's odd about that?" asked Mullroy, looking back to his fellow guard with skeptical interest. "Tom's a butcher, he's used to cleaving _cows_ apart. What's a bit of kneecap to Tom?"

"-So then the pirate, he picks up the leg, pops it back on his knee, and strolls of like it were_ nuthin'."_

"Hyperbole. Sheer exaggeration. We all know Tom's prone to tellin' fish tales. Now, what's more probable, that the ship what shanghaied Miss Swann is crewed by the damned and captained by a man so evil that Hell itself spat him back out, or that Tom Moider was tellin' tales again?"

Seeing that Mullroy was absorbed in his chat again, Edmund let himself be rocked with the sway of the ship, and lurched toward the officer again. Only_ this _time, instead of just 'bumping' into him, Edmund accidentally bowled Mullroy clear off his feet- and, losing his balance, Ed toppled too. Lime-scented suds splashed every which way.

"I say!" Mullroy stammered.

"Sure is clumsy, isn't he?" commented the thinner guard.

"Sorry," Edmund muttered, as he un-kinked his twisted limbs, and stumbled upright.

Mullroy had soap in his eyes, and kept slipping miserably on the water every time he tried getting up.

So Edmund decided to give him a hand. But as Ed hoisted the temporarily soap-blinded guard up, he saw the key-ring looped around the wrist of the hand he was grabbing. _Golden opportunity! _Ed thought briskly. Swiftly snatched the keyring off Mullroy's cuff, Ed subtly dropped it in the now-empty bucket. Then he started casually mopping the dry floor, while moving slowly toward the brig-cells.

"Did you notice," the thinner guard said to his friend speculatively, "all the corpses we found in the street after the raid were civilians? Folks we knew and could put names to._ Not_ pirates. Did even _one_ of the_ pirates_ perish? _No."_

"The ship Norrington's chasin' is _NOT_ the Black Pearl," Mullroy droned, rolling his slightly red eyes toward the brig ceiling. Scowling, he twisted the hem of his red jacket, wringing out some of the bubbly water.

By this point, Edmund had mopped his way to right in front of Locust's iron-barred cell.

"I bet my favorite deck of playing cards it _is,"_ the thinner officer argued.

Ed fit the largest key in the lock- then the second-largest. That one fit. He turned it with a quick jerk of the wrist.

"I bet my best whittling knife it's _not," _Mullroy shot back.

With intense suspicion in his dark eyes, Locust peered up curiously at Ed.

"I bet my lucky corkscrew it _IS."_

Ed made a shushing noise, then slid his finger over his throat.

Locust nodded silently.

"I bet my wig it's _NOT."_

Edmund swung the nicely oiled cell door open without a creak, just wide enough for Locust to creep out.

"But..." replied the thinner officer blankly, "I don't want your wig. I've one just like it, and it's itchy, and sweaty, and a magnet for bedbugs."

"I don't want my wig either."

There was an awkward pause in the officers' betting argument.

Edmund started mopping a wide circle along the curved walls and sturdy cells of the brig, while standing in front of Locust's slim outline every step of the way, attempting to hide him from sight.

"So, in other words," the thinner officer pondered, "you bet your wig cuz you wouldn't _mind_ losing it, which means you harbor at least the slim possibility in your mind that you _might _lose, which means that some small part of you concedes that the Black Pearl_ might_ actually _be_ a real ship, and in_ fact,_ the ship we are presently chasing?"

"If there_ is_ a part of me what thinks that, it sure as stars isn't my brain!"

By this point, Ed had nearly reached the staircase.

Locust darted forwards suddenly, slinking up the wood steps like an assassin's shadow.

In his hurry to catch up, Edmund smacked into Mullroy a third time, this time _honestly _on accident.

Spotting the keys in Ed's hand, the wig-wearing guard frowned suspiciously.

"Um- here!" Ed stammered, backing off and holding keyring out at arm's-length. "You dropped this!"

"Oh," Mullroy said emptily. "Oh, that might've been disastrous!" His cross grimace shifted into a grateful smile. "Thanks jolly much!"

"Anytime!" Edmund said, weakly returning the smile, while still backing off toward the stairs.

"Erm- Mullroy-" the thinner officer began again.

"Look," Mullroy sighed in exasperation, "I don't put stock in impossibilities, and that's that."

"Impossibilities like the prisoner vanishing?"

"Aye, impossibilities like- _what?"_

"How-"

Edmund broke into a run.

"The cabin boy!" Mullroy exclaimed in shock.

"-We should tell someone-"

"-They'll blame us-"

"-We'll be demoted to- um, what's lower than dock guards?"

"Cabin boys?"

"We're too old to be cabin boys!"

"At least we wouldn't have to wear wigs..."

Edmund speedily escaped up the stairs while they puzzled this out.

"Hold up, you!" he heard behind him, "See here, if you help us catch that Turk again, cabin boy, we can lock him up, and no one needs to know he escaped, and then we won't be demoted to cabin boys, and you won't have to share your job with us!"

"Come_ on_, that's not much incentive for the lad! If we shared his job, he wouldn't have to work so hard, see?"

The guards continued arguing the point as they hurried up to the maindeck, not noticing that Edmund had slipped off into the gundeck, and was hiding breathlessly behind the wide mizzen-mast poking up through the floor and roof.

Once the patter of their boots had passed, Ed hurried over to one of the starboard gun-ports, stuck his head out past the hinged shutter, and looked up, wondering if he could climb up the side of the hull to reach the rowboats.

Suddenly, he felt a long-boned hand grip around his collar, and another around his mouth. He was pulled backwards, then tugged down behind the shadow of a nearby cannon, the one closest to the hull. The cannon was polished and new, but it still smelled strongly of gunpowder. Twisting his neck around sharply in the cramped space, Edmund saw Locust.

"You're more conspicuous than a peacock amongst vultures, and thrice as loud," Locust sneered in a mocking whisper. "I t'would gladsomely abandon you to bumble idiotically back into captivity, had I not still need of you to row."

Edmund yanked his collar and mouth out of Locust's grip, and whispered back harshly, "Ditto." Then Ed jerked his head toward the window in a signal that meant, 'Follow me.'

Thankfully, Locust didn't argue.

Putting aside their mutual mistrust and dislike of each other, the two escapees climbed up the ladders carved into the sides of the hull, snuck in through the galley window, stole some food and a few canteens of fresh water, secretly loaded the supplies into one of the rowboats, and lowered the boat into the water. So far, so good.

Sadly, the escape attempt was doomed from the start.

Before they'd rowed even five feet away from the Dauntless, a sharply barbed grappling hook gashed into their getaway boat.

Looking up guiltily, Edmund saw Commodore Norrington, standing at the rail, glaring down beneath the shadow of his black tricorn.

"Captain!" a voice hollered down from the crow's nest, "I've spotted something yonder which I imagine would interest you!"

Ignoring his lookout, the commodore called down evenly to Edmund, "That jollyboat is Royal Navy property. Theft of any sort on the High seas counts as piracy."

And that was that.

Edmund and Locust were vastly outnumbered, and unprepared to put up a proper struggle._ And_ the navymen had muskets. So, about ten minutes later, the escapees were back in the lime-scented brig, on the wrong side of the bars.

"Oh, brilliant, just _brilliant_," Edmund growled, kicking the bars hard in frustration.

"Actually," Locust drawled cynically, settling down into cross-legged meditation position, "not so very."

"Can it!" Edmund growled, curling his throbbing toes in agony, and remembering too late that he wasn't wearing shoes.

"Can it?"

"You know, stick a sock in it? Put a cork on it? Shut up? Silence yourself?"

Uncrossing his legs, Locust shot to his feet, and stomped close to Edmund. Craning his long neck up to stare the younger boy down, the Calormene narrowed his eyes to snake-like slits behind the messy strands of his crimson-died hair, which looked even redder without the turban. "I am the _supreme Tisroc," _Locust hissed arrogantly. "The very _thought _of esteeming _your_ commands is orders mean less to me then fingernail clippings."

"So... what _do_ fingernail clippings mean to you, your supreme Tisrocness?" Ed retorted sarcastically.

"Can it, infidel Narnian," Locust leered. Swishing away to the far side of the cell, he went back to meditating, and ignoring everything.

Sighing, Edmund leaned backwards weightily against the thick, tightly-spaced bars. Vaguely, he wondered just what the lookout had spotted. Scraping his spine slightly against the iron, he sank slowly down to the floorboards, while sliding his half-clenched fingers through his messy black curls.

He'd reached a dead end.

_And for Caspian and my sisters,_ Ed realized, _it could be a __literal__ one._


	17. Signals

**-Chapter 17: Signals-**

* * *

Well, Caspian won.

Groggily lifting her face off his cheek and shoulder, and straightening her slumped spine, Susan smiled down at the lovely head resting sideways across her knees. Droplets of saltwater dripped down her dark hair, pinging on his soundly sleeping face.

The water level on the atoll had risen several inches since yesterday. So, since Caspian couldn't lie flat on the bumpy coral (and he absolutely_ needed _to lie flat to recover, in Susan's opinion), she'd bossed him into propping his head up on her knees and getting some sleep, while she knelt awake, keeping watch. After all, there was always the vague possibility that the others- Sparrow, Swann, Grassroot, Ed, Lu, or even that ghastly, arrogant Calormene- had escaped the raft-wreck alive, and would come floating by, and Susan didn't want to miss the chance of spotting them.

Caspian had pointed out that _she'd_ need sleep too, eventually, and maybe they should take turns keeping watch.

To which Susan had replied, "Rubbish, I can go for days without sleep." She hadn't mentioned what she'd been thinking, though, which was: _'Besides, if this __is__ a dream, I'm __already__ asleep.'_

Caspian had bet her that she did _too _need sleep. His wager was, if she fell asleep during the night, then she lost the bet, and owed him a kiss. But if she_ somehow, _superhumanly, stayed awake_ all_ night to the next sunrise, then _he _owed_ her_ a kiss. It was a pretty win-win wager, since either way, they both got a kiss! It was also immensely sappy and silly. But the absurdity of the bet had lightened the doomy mood, at least slightly.

Blinking away the last of her crusty-eyed sleep, Susan let her achy neck fall backwards, and swiveled her head from shoulder-to-shoulder in a circle, hearing her vertebrae make little crackly noises. _Alright, last time __ever__ I'm falling asleep face-first in a kneeling position,_ Susan concluded irritably. But even more painful than her strained spine, was the rosy sunburn painted across the back of her neck, her upper arms, and her back. Susan was rather wishing now that her party dress _didn't _go so far down in the back.

Her gentle blue eyes swept around her, and all she saw was sea, and a few small splinters of driftwood, one larger, arm's-length slab of driftwood... and, oddly enough, a stray floating oar. The red reef under her submerged knees was brightly visible through the clear, rippling Caribbean saltwater, but only from a top view. To a passing ship, the atoll would be invisible.

Susan's eyes dropped down to her lap again. It was amazing, she reflected, that Caspian could sleep with all that water sloshing in his ears. _He's so lovely. So picturesque. So charmingly regal. _Just now, with his narrow jaw slightly slack, and his eyes shut, and his fine-boned features smooth and undisturbed, he looked as innocent and sweet as a baby._ Good grief, he practically __is__ a baby, _Susan realized in exasperation._ I'm thirteen-hundred years older than him! But... does that matter, really? _Tenderly, trying not to wake him, she fingered a string of bulbous orange seaweed off of his forehead.

Caspian's dark lashes fluttered, and he peered up at her intensely and questioningly, like a detective. "You slept, didn't you?" he deduced finally, with the faintest suggestion of a smile forming under his nose.

Nodding weakly as she flicked the seaweed away, Susan replied in mock-indignation, "It's all _your_ fault. You don't snore."

Breaking into a teasing grin, Caspian said, "Time to pay up."

He didn't have to tell her twice. Licking her chapped lips, Susan leaned down again, and kissed her beloved, injured, otherworldly boy meekly. His fingers lightly brushed her cheeks, and he tucked her dripping hair behind her ears as they kissed. She felt dizzy with happiness. _Maybe I'm going delirious_, she speculated. Now that she'd accepted Caspian was real, it was much harder to view her present situation with a sensibly critical eye. Even though they had no food, no fresh water, and next-to-no chance of outlasting the week, everything seemed marvelous, somehow. Golden, somehow.

Midway through the lengthy kiss, Susan spotted something out of the corner of her half-closed eye that made her jerk upright. Forgetting momentarily about Caspian's head on her knees, she jumped to her bare feet. The sensible side of her immediately took control. "HEY! OVER HERE!" she hollered, waving her sun-burnt arms wildly over her head. "SOS! HELP! HELP! THIS WAY! RIGHT HERE! CAN YOU SEE ME? CAN YOU HEAR ME?"

Coughing sea-foam, Caspian bent upright at the waist out of the water, twisting his head and torso around to squint at the sunny horizon Susan was hollering towards. "That's a ship!" he exclaimed exultantly.

_Good, so Caspian can see it too, _Susan thought in relief, s_o it's not a mirage- unless he's crazy too,_ she added, glancing nervously at the mind-muddling iron gauntlet locked onto his forearm."HELP!" she shrieked shrilly, vaguely aware that her voice sounded unflatteringly like a train whistle at full blast. "WAIT! DON'T GO! PLEASE! OVER HERE! WE REQUIRE ASSISTANCE! HELP! _HELP!" _

"CASTAWAYS IN THIS DIRECTION!" Caspian added, joining in on the shouting. "AHOY! HAVE YOU NOTICED OUR DISMAL MISFORTUNE? WE'RE STRANDED! OVER HERE! TO YOUR STARBOARD SIDE! COULD YOU SPARE THE TIME OF DAY TO DELIVER US FROM OUR PLIGHT? AHOY!" He staggered upright next to Susan, swaying like a palm tree in a gale, but she was too busy shouting at the top of her lungs to scold him for standing.

No response from the ship. It just continued floating placidly along, looking like a tiny daisy from this distance, and showing no signs of turning around.

_If only I had something to signal with! _Susan thought frantically,_ something bright and red, preferably- Or peach could work... _"I need your sleeve!" she told Caspian rapidly.

"My what?"

Not bothering to waste time explaining, Susan grabbed Caspian's mostly-torn indigo sleeve, ripped it the rest of the way off the fraying strings of his tunic, and tugged the sleeve off his gauntleted arm. Next, she picked up the large piece of driftwood floating by her shins. Being careful not to trip, Susan then paced across the uneven, underwater coral, towards the oar. Wishing her fingers weren't vibrating like bug wings, she hastily wrapped the indigo sleeve around one end of the driftwood and the flat blade of the oar, tying them together into one long, awkward pole.

"Now, turn around," Susan ordered.

"What?" Caspian repeated.

"Just do it! And close your eyes too- I'll tell you when you can open them again. No peeking," she added strictly.

Confused, but obviously eager to please her, Caspian placed his hand over his heart in a comically exaggerated gesture, and said, "On my honor as High King, I shan't peek."

"Good. Don't."

Once Caspian turned his back, Susan hastily unzipped her peaches-and-cream party dress, and yanked it forward, pulling it off over her stinging, sun-burnt neck and shoulders. This left her in just her lacy slip, underwear, and bra; feeling stupid and exposed. But if this worked, the embarrassment would be well worth it. Swiftly, Susan knotted one corner of the pleated, flower-patterned skirt to the top end of the slab of driftwood. Next, raising the oar high above her head, she swung her makeshift signal flag wildly back and forth, yowling _"HELP! HELLP! HEEEELLLLP!" _until her vocal cords felt like they were about to snap. Then she started hopping up and down too, which, naturally, only increased her towering feeling of stupidity.

"May I peek yet?" Caspian asked meekly.

"No!" she exclaimed sharply, peeking over her reddened shoulder rapidly to make sure Caspian wasn't looking. He wasn't.

When she looked back toward the ship, though, Susan was pretty sure her eyes were lying to her.

She was wrong. The ship _had_ changed course, really and truly! It was luffing gently towards her and Caspian now, with all its lofty sails puffed out with the same breeze that was tossing her seaweed-tangled hair over her red shoulders.

Smiling deliriously, showing all her teeth, Susan continued to wave the peachy flag, bobbing up-and down on her waterlogged toes with excitement.

The ship got closer and closer...

Finally, it got close enough for Susan to feel uncomfortable. Well, more uncomfortable than she already_ was_, anyway, being wet, burnt, bedraggled, sweaty, overtired, worried, stressed, and badly in need of a chiropractor. She decided it would be a pretty good idea to slip back into her dress (which had, annoying, collected quite a few soggy splinters from being tied to the driftwood). She had a little trouble zipping up the zipper in back, which had gotten clogged with seaweed, but at last she managed it.

At an aloof distance of about a fathom, the lofty ships' sails were pulled up, and it came to a standstill. Evidently, whoever was sailing it had guessed there was a reef, and didn't want to bring the ship any closer, for fear of crashing and scuttling. After a short, suspenseful wait, a rowboat bobbed away from the ship, and briskly approached the atoll.

Susan waited breathlessly, thinking joyous thoughts of dryness, food, fresh water, and shade.

Looking hard, she was able to make out the faces of the two men rowing the rowboat. One resembled a happy, wrinkled, underfed rhinoceros. The other was young, sour-faced, and reminded Susan why she hated blonds. A few minutes later, the rowboat had bobbed up right on top of the submerged atoll, throwing ripples towards the two castaways.

"Looked like ye were walking on water, it did, ha!" snorted the skinny, rhinoceros one, cracking a grin that made all the lines in his old face twist upwards towards his button eyes. "Thank goodness yer alive!"

He was loud, but likable, Susan decided.

"And thank _you _exceedingly for coming to our rescue, kind sirs," Caspian replied politely, stepping out from behind Susan, and giving a small nod, that somehow managed to look as elegant and grateful as a full-body, theatrical bow. "I can peek now, right?" he asked Susan quietly.

"Strewth!" snarled the blond, noticing Caspian for the first time. Leaping to his booted feet (which almost tipped over the rowboat), and fumbling to grab the musket slung onto his back, the young sailor aimed his pointy-ended weapon sharply at Caspian's confused face. "It's one of those _pirate _vermin!"

"What?" Susan exclaimed, stepping between Caspian and the threatening bayonet.

"Quit rockin' the boat," the rhinoceros man ordered the younger sailor, and then asked Susan curiously, "Who's the Spaniard?"

"Oh, he's not really-" she began quickly.

Interrupting her, and stepping in front of her again, Caspian said, "My name is Caspian the Tenth, High King-"

"Hiking enthusiast," Susan interrupted him back, as a quick cover-up. No need to bring up awkward subjects like, say, _Narnia. _Caspian started to say something else, but she silenced him with a warning glance.

"_Is _he a pirate?" the blond demanded, while gazing a little too intensely at her wet dress, and more particularly, her pleated skirt, which was clinging to her thighs revealingly.

"No," Susan replied bluntly, wishing he'd get his eyes off her. He was _not_ likable. Though she had to admit, he might have been attractive if his nose wasn't shorter than hers, and if he wasn't wearing that ghastly red uniform that made his face look like paste. And if he wasn't blond.

"Oh." The blond frowned stiffly. "Too bad. Commodore has rewards out for anyone who captures a pirate." Shouldering his musket reluctantly, he held out a wide hand to Susan.

_He feels like paste too, _Susan thought, as she let him take her hand and help her into the rowboat, even though it wasn't really necessary, since she could have just stepped in, like Caspian was doing.

Ignoring the younger sailor, the older one cackled, "Oh, won't the Commodore be pleased ta see _you,_ Missy, oh, won't he just?"

"He will?" Susan asked, bewildered, as she sat down on the middle plank seat, next to Caspian.

"Indeed, yes, happy as a clam at high tide, he'll be!"

But the blond sailor didn't look too happy. Especially not when he saw Caspian slip a sleeveless, iron-clad arm over Susan's shoulders.

As sweet as that move was, it hurt like heck. Wincing, Susan plucked Caspian's gauntlet off her shoulders, whispering harshly, "Sunburn!"

"Sorry," Caspian whispered back.

Their 'intimate' whispers only seemed to irritate the blond more, and he scowled- a severe, disapproving scowl. Susan wondered what his problem was. She also noticed a small copper spyglass hung by a chain, under his black necktie. Politely, she asked him, "Were you the one who spotted us?" _And more importantly, did you see me in my undies?_ she added in her head, wondering just _how_ effective the magnifying lenses of old-fashioned spyglasses were.

"Indeed, yes," the blond replied self-importantly, as he grabbed his oars and started to row. "So in fact, I saved your life, Miss. I hope you won't neglect to mention that to the commodore."

"Yes, of course," Susan assured him, "thank you, Mr..."

"Martin Tweak," he introduced himself, "master lookout aboard the H.M.S. Dauntless."

"An' I'm Thaddeus," the wrinkly geezer added from behind her, with a wink.

Glancing back and forth between the two rowers, Susan said primly, "Pleased to meet you both." That was just a half-truth. "I'm Phyllis," she added. That was also a half-truth.

"_Phyllis? _Are yeh positive sure 'bout that?" Thaddeus asked in bewilderment.

"Phyllis?" Caspian echoed, in about the same tone.

"Well you don't need to look at me like _that,"_ she told the High King, "I'm not fibbing. It _is _my middle name, after all." It was also the name she habitually told to people who she didn't plan on knowing for long.

"Oh, middle name eh?" Thaddeus said, sounding oddly relieved. "That's alright then."

"I didn't know you_ had_ a middle name," Caspian commented bemusedly. "Are middle names common in your world?"

"Yes, very, most everyone has at least one," Susan informed him.

"What do you mean_ 'your world'?_" Martin asked, screwing up his stubby nose, and fixing Caspian with a 'tell me-or-else' expression.

"Oh-" stammered Susan, hastily trying to come up with an excuse that wasn't a lie. "-The New World! I'm from England, which is part of the Old World- hence, it's a different world from _his _point of view, since he's from the New World." By which Susan meant Narnia, which, technically, was a new world to her.

"Ah," said Martin dryly. "The Americas. Never been there. Heard they're a bunch of godless heathens, though."

Susan just smiled thinly.

The rest of the short boat ride passed by wordlessly. Then, the rowboat was hoisted up onto the impressive ship with the small pulley cranes protruding from the side, and Martin helped Susan up onto the deck in an over-friendly, gentlemanly fashion, just like he'd done when helping her into the rowboat. This seemed to irritate Caspian, judging by the way he pulled her away from Martin possessively, saying crisply, "Thanks."

The thought that Caspian was jealous made Susan dip her head low, hiding a small smile.

Stepping casually between Susan and Caspian, Thaddeus hooked his arms through theirs, and ushered the two damp ragamuffins into the captain's neatly-arranged cabin.

The Commodore wasn't there, so Thaddeus sent Martin to fetch him.

It was an awkward wait. For one thing, the blond lookout wouldn't take his sharp eyes off Susan. For another thing, the ship kept swaying, making Caspian even more unbalanced. He stumbled against her, and had to hold onto her just to keep from falling over. Apparently, he'd forgotten about her sunburn again, but Susan didn't push him off this time, since she'd noticed how disturbingly weak and light he felt. She wondered if he'd eaten anything while he was Locust's prisoner earlier- and she realized that she felt weak too. Those chunks of coconut meat they'd munched back on the raft seemed like ancient history now. But she did her best to stay standing, since it would look pretty foolish if the Commodore found her and Caspian collapsed on his floor.

Out on deck, she heard someone shout out the order to unfurl the sails.

Abruptly, the cabin door swung in, rapping against the wall, and a man wearing lofty, military boots, and a grandiose, old-trimmed, wrinkled, blue, velvet coat, strode in like a force of nature. His white wig was askew, his shirt's buttons were in the wrong buttonholes, and soap-suds were trickling down below his ears. Apparently, he'd been interrupted in the middle of a bath. "Elizabe-" he began, then halted awkwardly. "-oh," he said finally.

The swaying door's squeaking hinges were the only sound for a minute.

Then the wigged newcomer cleared his throat officiously, and stated flatly, "That's_ not _her."

"Yer not Miss Elizabeth?" Thaddeus asked Susan disappointedly, as if it were her fault. "Oh, terribl'ee sorry I am, Commodore," the old guy apologized, "me an' Officer Tweak, we thought perhaps she might be the fine lady you were looking for. She fit the description, young, fair-faced, dark hair, wearing naught but her bedclothes."

"These are _not_ my bedclothes!" Susan protested. _Really!_ she thought indignantly. After_ all_, it wasn't like her party dress was immodest- well, perhaps an _inch_ too short in the skirt, according to Lucy- but not skimpy or anything. At least not according to 20th century dress standards.

"Well, to be sure I'm no expert on wimmin's bedclothes, nope, not me," Thaddeus said fervently, clearing his throat, and flushing red in the face.

"But wait," Susan realized suddenly, forgetting her clothing troubles, "you people are looking for her? Elizabeth Swann?"

"You may return to your posts, men," the wigged man told Thaddeus and the rest of the loitering sailors and navymen that had collected in the captain's cabin, or outside the windows.

"Oh yes! _Now _I know who you are!" Susan exclaimed exultantly, snapping her fingers (and almost dropping Caspian). "Miss Swann mentioned you'd be looking for her! You must be her father!"

The wigged man cringed slightly.

"Actually, that would be me," said another man, stepping in from a side room in the main cabin. He also wore a wig- though his was long and wavy, like a waterfall, and he had a lot more wrinkles than the first man- though not as many as Thaddeus, of course. "Governor Weatherby Swann, at your service," he said distractedly. With a wave towards the first man, he added, "And he is Commodore James Norrington, of His Majesty's finest."

Susan noticed wet strands of dark brown hair curling out from under Norrington's hastily-pinned-on wig, and realized that he wasn't as old as she'd thought at first glance. "Oh," she said, embarrassed.

"And how do you know my daughter then, child?" The man who was actually Elizabeth's father asked persistently.

Collecting her thoughts, Susan replied, "The pirates marooned her on the same island my friends and siblings and I... were stranded on."

"How dreadful..." Governor Swann muttered worriedly. "And where is she presently? And what is that contraption on your arm, lad?"

Before Caspian could say _'an insanity-inducing torture device a werewolf locked on me to get me to tell where four children being hunted by a White Witch were,' _or something equally honest and tactless, Susan said,

"It's just some rusty old gauntlet. And I haven't a notion where Miss Swann is."

"Oh, bother it," the Governor sighed, rubbing the sides of his head. Clasping his shaky hands behind his fancifully patterned waistcoat, he started pacing in a stressed little circle.

Norrington, meanwhile, was looking Susan up and down intensely, from scratched toes to seaweedy hair. "Miss Pevensie, I presume?" he said finally.

"How do you..." Realizing excitably that he must have learned her name from someone she knew, Susan said instead, "...er, _do_; how do you do?" Eagerly, she added, "I presume you've encountered my friends and/or siblings?"

"Yes. You look remarkably like your brother."

"I'll try to pretend that was a compliment," Susan said wryly. "Where is he? Is he the only one you found?"

"Your brother is currently occupying our brig, along with a redhead Turk of similar age."

"May I see them?" Susan asked pleadingly.

"I suppose," Norrington replied tersely. "Follow me, Miss." Stepping out of the cabin door, he led Susan and Caspian to a hatch, which led down to a stairwell.

Midway down the first flight of stairs, Susan noticed that Caspian hadn't said anything for a while.

Midway down the second flight, he collapsed, hitting his shoulder against the banister as he dropped.

"I take it something ails your friend?" Norrington stated flatly.

"He needs food, and rest, and water, mostly," Susan muttered back, as she crouched down worriedly by Caspian's thin, limp body.

"Find him a hammock, and see that he's looked after," Norrington directed one of the red-coated sea officers loitering on the stair landing.

"Aye, Commodore," the officer replied with a nod, and Caspian was dragged away backwards up the stairs, with his heels smacking against the wood steps.

"Careful with him!" Susan called up severely, as she stood up. Rushing to tag after Norrington again on his way down the stairs, she asked him, "Um- I don't suppose you have any tools on this ship for removing rusty, locked, iron gauntlets?"

"No, but we have a blacksmith in port who could aid you- _had _a blacksmith in port," Norrington corrected himself sourly. "Currently, the talented yet rash Mr. Turner could be anywhere in the Spanish Main."

"_Will _Turner?" Susan guessed. "Oh, he's at an island that cannot be found except by those who already know where it is, getting his blood sacrificed to Aztec gods by skeleton pirate bogeymen, since his mission to save his girlfriend flopped," she rattled off, summarizing what Elizabeth Swann and Captain Sparrow had told her during their two-day raft voyage. "At least, I _think _Will's her boyfriend. She sounded awfully fond of him."

"Did she indeed," Norrington said emptily.

"Oh yes. Awfully," Susan said brightly, but from the way Norrington's spine stiffened beneath his blue velvet coat, she wondered if she'd said something wrong.

"I fear I have misjudged Mr. Turner," Norrington commented thoughtfully. "I had half suspected that he would simply abscond with the Interceptor and go a-pirating with Mr. Sparrow, but it appears he meant to go through with his half-witted plan of rescuing Miss Swann from the marauding pirates after all."

"Yes, but then they marooned her and her friend Captain Sparrow on the island my friends and I were stuck on."

"Marooned with _Sparrow?"_ the Commodore repeated, looking alarmed.

"Yes, but we made a raft. Then there were reefs and a storm and such, and we got split up."

"Well," Norrington replied after six more steps, "your story corroborates the tale told me by your brother. I suppose I have also misjudged _his_ character somewhat."

"Meaning what?" Susan asked uncertainly.

Wordlessly, Norrington unlatched the hatch to the brig, and stepped down the last of the stairs, to the lowest deck, with Susan close behind. The place smelled vaguely of some sort of citrus fruit- M_aybe lemons,_ Susan thought.

"Su!" Ed exclaimed from across the room, and his shocked expression was priceless.

"Edmund!" Susan replied, breaking into a cheeky grin, which dropped off her face when she saw the bars. "You didn't say he was locked up!" she said accusingly, whirling to confront Norrington.

"Yes I did indeed," Norrington replied, sounding quite matter-of-fact, "I said he was in the brig."

"That's basically the nautical word for prison," Ed informed Susan.

"What are you _doing _in there?" she asked her younger brother in a high-strung tone.

Ed shrugged nonchalantly. "Basically, I'm a pirate."

"_What?"_

"I stole a rowboat to go rescue you guys, since I thought you were in the other direction than the one _he_ insisted on sailing in," Ed explained, giving Norrington an annoyed look. "Therefore, apparently, I'm a pirate."

"Why is it _boys_ can never keep a map in their heads?" Susan wondered ironically.

"So I was a _bit _disoriented," Ed retorted. "So sue me."

In the far corner of the cell, Susan spotted Locust, who was missing his black turban. Some of the red dye was starting to seep out of his naturally black hair, his eyes were shut, and he was sitting cross-legged, with perfect posture, in a yoga lotus position.

"Hullo, Locust," Susan said. "I see you didn't drown."

"Neither did you," he replied, letting his dark eyes open to slits. "Pity."

"He's actually in one of his better moods right now," Ed told Susan jokingly.

Unexpectedly, Norrington took the keyring from one of the cell guards, twisted the key in the lock, grabbed Ed's wrist, and pulled him out.

"Huh?" Ed said.

"Honesty is an admirable trait, Edmund Pevensie," Norrington replied calmly. "You were telling the truth about having sisters lost at sea."

"Yeah, well, why would a bloke lie about something like that?" Ed pointed out.

"You are free to return to your duties as cabin boy," the commodore directed him.

"Huh?"

"My laundry needs ironing, for one thing."

Edmund glanced at his sister, and asked in puzzlement, "So what exactly did you do, Su- bribe him?"

"I just talked to him," she answered evenly.

"Just talked to him?" Ed repeated incredulously.

"You'd be amazed at what you can accomplish by just talking."

One of the guards started to let Locust out, but Norrington swung the cell shut with a clang. "Not that one," he said strictly. "He has an ill-favored look. I don't trust him."

"That's very sensible of you," Susan said approvingly, shooting Locust a mean, smug look. He really was a rotten pill.

"Anyway," Norrington went on, "I must beg your leave now to return to hunting down that elusive smoke signal."

"You've seen a smoke signal?" Susan asked excitably. "That has to be Miss Swann! She was talking about making a smoke signal back on the rum-runner's island, but we were out of rum- er- we didn't drink it, if that's what you're thinking!" she added, in response to Norrington's critical frown. "We simply dumped it out to use the empty bottles as buoys for our raft."

"Creative," the commodore stated admiringly. "I do hope you're correct- I vastly hope it_ is_ Miss Swann, and not simply some other random girl in a pink bed-shirt." Before Susan could object to that description, he added, "My lookout spotted the smoke signal earlier this morning. Then it simply vanished, like- well... smoke."

"Maybe she put the fire out?" Edmund guessed, as he picked up a fallen mop on the brig floor. "Maybe the wind blew it out? Maybe she ran out of fuel, and it just burnt out?"

"Either way, we're getting close," Norrington replied, with a hard glint in his murky green eyes.

"Hey-" Ed added grinningly, "-hey, wasn't Lucy on Miss Swann's half of the raft? And maybe Captain Sparrow and Grassroot survived too! Maybe we _all _pulled through alive! Hurrah!"

Giving him a long look, Norrington replied gravely, "Don't cheer yet, Pevensie."


	18. Blood and Cheers

-Chapter 18: Blood and Cheers-

* * *

_Roll, pitch. Heave, yaw. Shudder, sway._

Jack Sparrow had never noticed how creaky his beloved Black Pearl was until this moment. Charcoal sails flapped thunderously, leviathan waves pummeled and churned against the cutlery-jabbed, Swiss cheese hull; dead-eye hooks clapped woodenly against spars, rat paws clittered within the walls, ropes twanged and slithered, water-warped planks tittered and moaned. Aye, like a misty-eyed, cold-throated banshee, the black woodwork itself seemed to be shrieking out.

_Now, if only __Will__ would, _Jack thought irately. But even though the jeers and taunts of the _pirates_ in the orlop deck overhead were as clear and cutting as broken glass, the whelp remained as silent as the grave.

As for Elizabeth, she was so pale and haggard, she might as well have been_ in _one, six feet under, crushed and breathless. The poor girl was sitting hunched-over in the mucky, foot-high bilge-water, shivering like a skeletal autumn leaf, with her arms tightly crinkling the dirty white fabric around her knees, and her tapered chin jutting upwards. She'd been like that for the past two hours, refusing to take her eyes off the brig ceiling.

The chicory-eyed kitten was kneeling right next to her, thigh-high in bilge, mewing yet another gravelly-voiced little prayer.

And the nonexistent faun was snuggled up right next to the so-called child queen, with both arms curled around her bent spine in a protective hug. His watchful, puppy-like eyes were also glued to the ceiling.

Jack _really _didn't care to contemplate what Barbossa and his crew of sea-wolves would do to those two lasses- _or Anamaria,_ Jack added sheepishly, catching sight of the piratess's dark eyes and panther grimace behind Gibbs' broad shoulder. Ana worked so efficiently with the blokes on the crew, it was easy to forget she was female. Of course, the trousers helped.

But luckily- _if 'luckily's' the word-_ just now, the mutineers were too busy stuffing their faces, guzzling pricey alcohol, and torturing poor Will, to be thinking about women. _Or the imaginary faun. Or the rest of me crew, _Jack added silently, glancing forlornly at Gibbs, Moises, the scowling midget, the chap in the wig, Mr... um- the orange-vested baldy, that chap in the straw hat... _Bethy is right, _Jack thought guiltily, glancing back at the quaking governor's daughter. _I don't even properly know me own crew's names. Maybe I __am__ a bosh captain after all_.

The cramped brig-cell smelt of mildew, rat poison, and of course, _bilge_. No one was smiling. _Of course, it's a __tad__ hard to tell with the parrot..._ Jack admitted, squinting at the vibrant bird's rigid, unreadable black beak. Everyone's spirits were so dampened, they might as well have been underwater.

Even the guard, Dogear, looked upset. Only, in _his _case, he was ticked because he was stuck guarding the prisoners, instead of up in the orlop joining his mates in the jolly_ fun _sport of torturing a defenseless, restrained blacksmith scarcely out of his boyhood.

_Scream, Will, _Jack pleaded mutely, glaring hard at the ceiling-boards. _Cry out. Moan. Whimper, even. Give 'em the kicked puppy routine. Knuckle under, already! Submission. That's what they're after, that's what they won't stop till they get. Yer jus' goadin' them on, boy, can't ya see it? Oh, as if they needed goading..._

The whelp's silence was as deafening as point-blank cannonfire.

_I warned ya not ta do anythin' stupid, William. I __did__ warn ya... _

Jack heard a whip snap. _Not a rope, a rope wouldn't be so loud, so rapping._ It was a whip alright, a knotted, forked, metal-capped, cat-o'-nine-tails. _So they're flogging him now, are they? Knew they'd get around ta that one eventcha'lly. _Jack counted every whip-lash.

Elizabeth swallowed a sob.

Sidling through tightly-packed shoulders and filthy water, Jack dropped down to one knee behind Elizabeth, and rested his sweaty palm on her pointy shoulder. His fingers tightened into a firm, and hopefully comforting, grip.

Her manicured nails seized over the ratty black rag tied around his hand. Peering over her shoulder with red-hot, tear-scorched eyes, she pleaded hoarsely, "Jack... Jack, do something clever."

_So blindly hopeful, so accusing, so desperately dependent, _he thought, feeling sick.

Pulling his hand free from hers, Jack lurched over, stretching his aching spine out towards the bars, and gave the nearby hinges a sharp rap with his knuckles, knocking off a few grains of crusty rust. "Do these look like half-pin barrel hinges to you?" he asked caustically.

"How should I know?" Elizabeth muttered.

"Have you a bench handy to test it?"

"No-" she began in puzzlement, "-_what?"_

"Fraid I can't help, then."

"Captain Jack Sparrow," she implored raspily, grabbing his swordarm, which she apparently didn't know Barbossa had gashed earlier.

Wincing, Jack shrugged his stinging arm out of her grip, and shot her a sharp glance.

Mirroring his glower, she whispered softly,_ "Be _the pirate I read about. Please, for _once_, live up to your stories."

The awkward, frozen moment that followed seemed to last ten lifetimes. Ten silent, unheroic, _painful,_ lifetimes.

Something wet dripped down from between the cracks in the ceiling, onto the side of Jack's neck. Wet and sticky- and sickeningly _red_.

"Aw,_ hell,"_ Jack whispered between a gold-toothed grimace.

That was it. He wasn't taking this hogwash another minute, not on _his_ ship. Jumping to his boots, he meshed his scraped fingers through the square holes, curling them to fists around the rusty, flat-edged bars. _"Parley,"_ he barked out, fighting back the choked-up quiver in the back of his throat.

"Wha?" Dogear asked in befuddlement.

"Ya _know _what I mean, you scurvy roach, so I'll not repeat it." _Since I'd likely mispronounce it anyway, _Jack added mentally. "Take me ta yer ruddy, blaggardly, mutineerin' _cur _of a captain. Now."

Dogear seemed awfully glad for an excuse to get out of guard duty. Or he was just looking forward to seeing how battered Will was now. Either way, after unlocking and re-locking the cell, Dogear dragged Jack up the steps with childish impatience.

As he tramped up the stairs in front of Dogear, a dust-choked sunbeam from one of the hatches hit Jack right between the eyes. _So it's dawn now,_ the jangling pirate realized. As he passed by a port window, he caught a whiff of fragrant breeze. _We must be passin' by the vicinity of one of the spice islands, _he figured absently.

Barbossa liked to talk, Jack knew. _Also, I'm figuring he's pro'lly in a pretty good mood as of now..._

A minute later, Dogear was pulling Jack into the Pearl's magazine, where the gunpowder, flintlocks, rifles, machetes, grenades, cutlasses, chains, and ammo were stored. In other words, a perfect torture chamber.

Jack spotted Will right off, chained by one ankle to the base of one of the spare cannons, and kneeling in a puddle of his own blood. Koehler was standing above the boy, smoothing out some tangles in the nine-tailed whip he held.

The rest of Barbossa's mutineers were drunk as owls, clanking mugs together, sloshing bubbly beer and cider and wine and rum all over the floorboards- only the best, of course. They were toasting and cheering, and congratulating each other on freedom from the curse.

"May the roof above us never fall in, And may we mates gathered below never fall out!"

_Cheers._

"May the hinges of our friendship never grow rusty!"

_Cheers._

"May you be half an hour in Heaven before the Devil knows your dead!"

_Cheers._

"Down with the king!"

_Cheers._

"Here's a health to yerr enemies' enemies!"

_Cheers._

"To us!"

_Cheers._

"To living!"

_Cheers._

"To livin' footloose and fancy-free, rich as kings and a hunderd times as jolly!"

_Cheers, bloody cheers._

"To hell!" Jack put in vivaciously. "Wiv all of you."

"What's Sparraw doin' out of 'is birdcage?" Barbossa drawled, after swallowing another cheekful of apple. The feather-hatted captain was leaning against another cannon, supervising Will's torture like it were a spectator sport. Like cockfighting or bear-baiting.

"'E called parley," Dogear explained.

Mr. Pintel scrunched up his greasy face, and muttered, "I'm getting' _mighty _sick o' that word..."

"Hullo, Hector," Jack greeted blithely, forcing a smile to his lips. "Suppose we talks."

Koehler's whip whacked into Will's back yet again, as bitingly as a striking cobra.

Jack's dark eyes strayed longingly to the barrels of cutlasses and racks of rifles on the wall Barbossa was standing by...

Catching the look, Dogear kicked the back of Jack's boot warningly.

"Now, now, mate, Jack's under the protection of _parley_, he is," Barbossa purred, beckoning Jack over with a wave of his half-eaten apple. The monkey crawled up curiously from behind Barbossa's hat, pushing the shadowy rim down over its master's eyes. A trickle of yellow dribbled down it's fuzzy chin as it nibbled a large chunk of banana, its black eyes huge.

So were Jack's. As he paced cautiously past the whelp, it was hard not to stare.

One of Will's arms was hanging at a strange angle- obviously dislocated- and his tanned skin looked parchment-pale. His brown vest was missing, and his loose cream shirt was torn down the back, hanging limply from his belt and one shoulder, leaving half of his chest and most of his back bare. Along with the deep stab-wound through his shoulder, there was also a zig-zag slit running down his side from armpit to waist, and innumerable smaller cuts. Not to mention a vast, colorful mosaic of bruises.

Jack winced. He didn't fancy violence, gore, blood. It wasn't that he was squeamish- he just sympathized. _After all, _Jack thought cynically, _when yer a chronic underdog, there's always gonna be __some__ bloke around who's jus' all too cheery ta teach ya the meaning of pain..._ By this point in his rough-and-tumble life, Jack was well-versed on the subject. In fact, he'd pretty much aced the lesson of 'pain'._ Heck, I could write the book on it._

All told though, from what Jack could see, Will was in pretty good shape. The lad still had the right number of everything anyhow- ten fingers, two ears, two eyes, one nose, and one head on his shoulders. And he was still breathing. _All good signs. _

Well, actually, not _breathing_ so much as _panting_, slowly yet sharply. Jack wondered if they'd forced the lad to drink anything searing or acidic, or if they'd just pounded him with an ungodly number of punches. Or both.

"Is Elizabeth alright?" Will asked in a strangled moan.

_Good, they 'aven't cut his tongue out either. No of course, why would they? They want him to grovel, cry uncle, beg mercy. _"What are you,_ daft?_" Jack hissed. "Poor Lizbef' is a basketcase of nerves on yer account, boy!"

"Is she safe?"

"Oh, absolutely." But catching Barbossa's sarcastic expression, Jack added, "Not."

"Look," Will growled to his sottish torturers, "you all _got_ what you were after, you _broke_ your curse, you're _rich_, you're living _men _again. So for God's sake, show a little humanity!"

Koehler's whip struck again. Other mutineers giggled and guffawed. Some started singing drunkenly. The monkey joined in.

"Humanity's overrated," Jack muttered flatly.

"Belay it, the lot of ye!" Barbossa growled, silencing his chuckling crew with a harsh squint. He handed up another large chunk of banana to his monkey, which shut the critter up temporarily. Then his time-scarred, wrinkled-parchment face grew curious, as he looked toward the torture victim. "_What_ was that, boy?"

Taking a jagged, steadying breath, Will replied, "Do what you wish with me, but-

"Oh, we was plannin' on _that," _Barbossa cut in wryly.

"-But the other prisoners- Jack's crew, and the girl, and the faun, and-"

"An' fair maid Elizabeth?" Barbossa guessed flatly.

"Nice of you ta remember_ me_ this time, Will," Jack drawled, even more flatly.

"And Jack..." Will added hesitantly, mistrustfully. "Let them go free._ Not_ marooned on a deserted island, _not_ thrown to sharks in the middle of the sea, _not_ stranded amongst cannibals or pythons, but put ashore _safely_ and undamaged in _any_ way, on an inhabited, British, Christian coast- preferably Port Royal, and with-"

"Sorry, can't," Barbossa cut in, "I swore ta Miss_ Turner_ I'd put her port ta our rudder fer good, and I am a gent of my word."

Jack smirked ironically. "Save yer breath, Wiwl, ya need every lungful. Sides, this is _my _parade." "Parley," he corrected himself hastily. "An it don't matter _how_ specifical ya make yer prettily drawed-out demands, even_ if_ Barbossa agreed. For, to be honest wiv you... pirates lie."

"Only them that are too wormish and weak ta get away with the truth," sneered Barbossa.

"Aye, but the non-worms tend to be masterful at twisting words." To Barbossa, Jack added teasingly, "Come across any worms in them apples, mate? Reached the bottom of that bushel yet? Ya know, wiv a diet like that, you'll never hafta see a doctor in yer life. Oh right- 'nless someone shoots you."

"Ye say ye want to parley," Barbossa snarled. "So spit it out, Jack."

"I'd rather we discussed this heart-to-heart. Alone. As in, elsewhere._ Them _not present. That sorta 'alone'," Jack specified, trying to get the demonically drunk pirates to clear out of the magazine, so they'd stop hurting Will. Also, Jack didn't want Elizabeth and the rest of the prisoners in the brig underfoot hearing what he was about to say.

"Bring Sparrow ta my cabin," Barbossa ordered Dogear crisply.

"_Will_ too," Jack insisted fiercely.

"Nah, the whelp stays."

"Actually, here's good," Jack conceded reluctantly. _Fine, let them below all think I'm the villain then, _he thought. _ Maybe it's better that way. I ain't lettin' Will out of my sight. _

"Say yer piece, and have done," Barbossa spat.

"My piece?" Jack echoed blankly. "Oh, I just wanted to say it's a good thing ye left _him_ in one piece," he added, waving absently toward Will.

"We're jest gettin' started," Koehler grunted.

"Aye, bloody_ right_ we are!" Bos'un added in a vicious snort. There was a new, blood-stained, yellow-dotted sash tied around the scarred African's waist, where Will had stabbed him earlier.

It had always been Jack's opinion that Bos'un made rabid wolves look cuddly. "Goin' a bit fast, aren't we?" Jack snapped. "I mean, all of _that,_ jus' this mornin? Thought ye'd want ta drag this out."

"Aye," Barbossa agreed irritably. "I were outvoted."

"Yeah, just plain_ kill _him, _stellar _strategy, I'm _impressed,_" Captain Jack berated his old crew. Turning back to Barbossa, Jack stated coldly, "You're scapegoatin' him, Hector. It's his father what what wronged you, and as a smart-as-paint, o'verworldy, 'ittle-bitty, queenly poppet mentioned, Bill's likely still alive. Tell ye what- since you seem to be short on thoughts of late, here's one- _why_ not use young William the Second as bait? A fish-lure to catch Bootstrap? Now mark you here, jus' get word out that you've got Junior, and sure as stormclouds, Senior will come, when he learns his boy here's alive. Only, oh wait- you already_ killed _Will." Shrugging, Jack added, "So much fer _that._"

"Now Jack, yer the one not usin' the brain in yer skull," Barbossa scoffed. "We can jus' get word out in the pirating circles that we have Bootstrap Bill's progeny alive _after _we kill him."

"Sorta like _lying,_" Jack pointed out cheekily.

"More like harmless gossip an' rumors. Bootstrap won't know the difference till it's too late, then once he's he's taken the bait an' safely snared, we tells him we tortured and killed his whelp, then we torture and kill _him_."

"Huh. Repetitive. _Besides_..." Jack crooned devilishly, "wouldn't it give things an_ intriguing _flavor of poetical vengeance, were ya to.. say... kill Bootstrap's whelp in front of his very eyes?" Grinning goldenly, he added, "Savvy?"

Will gazed up through his blood-tangled curls with horror-laced eyes, one murky red with bloodshot veins, and the other gleaming and sharp as shrapnel.

That look tore through Jack like a serrated knife (and Jack knew _quite_ well what serrated knives felt like). But he couldn't tell Will he was just stalling, buying him time, he couldn't risk giving away the charade. _No, better ta let the whelp think I'm a monster, fer the time being. _

"Ye may be onta somethin', Jack..." Barbossa mused thoughtfully.

While staring placidly back at the whelp, absorbing all the hatred in Will's gaze like a sea-sponge, Jack started noticing certain 'details'.

Half of Will's right eyebrow, and most of his right eyelashes around his swollen eye were missing, and there was soot on his cheekbone. Obviously, Barbossa's sea-dogs had been holding up lit matches to Will's eyes- a pirate favorite. _Of course, it pro'lly didn't work as terrifyingly as they'd hoped, _Jack figured. _Will's a blacksmith, he's used to white-hot steel and starin' into furnaces fer hours on end. Why would paltry __matches__ phase him?_

But Will_ did_ look rattled. Not just slightly shaken, but really _rattled_, like a clogged salt-shaker that's been banged against the tabletop one too many times. Taking a closer look, Jack realized that Will was worse off then he'd initially thought. Blood streaked down Will's proud cheeks like tears, catching in his sparse goatee. At first Jack thought it was from a head-wound, until he noticed the quarter-inch slits in the tops of both Will's ears.

"Pirate," the whelp spat out shakily. In Will's book, that was probably the worst insult ever.

Jack's only answer was a raffish wink.

Then Will's forehead hit the deck, as he collapsed face-first. He'd fainted again.

_Blood loss being the mos' likely culprit,_ Jack thought sardonically. "I highly _suggest _you locate this ship's medical chest," he snarled aloud to the whole deck, in a tone that was obviously an _order._

"We haven't any, fer we've had nary any need of one these past ten years," Barbossa explained casually. _"Concerned,_ are we, Sparra'?"

Arranging his murderous features into a sunny, absolutely _un_concerned expression, Jack said brightly, "Ya gotta patch him up soon and snappy, or there goes yer intriguing poetical vengeance."

"Go ahead, Jack," Barbossa granted freely, with a wave of his slitted sleeve. "Ye've my leave."

"Me?"

"None o' _my _men are too keen on the idea. Sides, they're mostly too drunk to stand, let alone string some stitches."

"_Right..." _Jack mumbled reluctantly.

"Alright mates, clear off, fun's up," Barbossa ordered his crew. When the grumbles and mutters started though, he added with a malicious smile, "Fer _now._"

That seemed to appease the mutineers, and they staggered off without further complaint.

"An' fetch up the sail repair kit, Antonio," Barbossa added, to a pirate in a long orange vest and black gloves, who nodded briskly.

_Hector knows all his crew by name, _Jack thought somewhat jealously_. Course, he sailed wiv the dogs ten whole years, and I only knew em fer days. _Warily, Jack knelt beside the toppled smith's sticky red puddle, and rolled him onto his side, remembering last moment not to roll him _all _the way over, onto his cruelly whipped back. Jack tried not to gag. Will was worse off than he'd thought, alright.

Once, years ago, in his cabin boy days, on shore leave, Jack had stopped a ship's cat from mauling a baby rabbit. He hadn't _meant_ to save the rabbit, he'd just felt like kicking something, and the cat was the nearest convenient target. But the rabbit hadn't been a pretty picture. Raw, slivers of pearly pink flesh throbbed beneath at least two dozen small puncture wounds in the velvety brown pelt, and the rabbit was limp with shock, too numbed and dazed by pain to realize, or care, that a gigantic pirate had picked it up. Its eyes had been infinitely soft, infinitely blank, as if it was unable to comprehend the vastness of its agony. It, like Will, was also silent. Not a peep.

The baby rabbit had died. Right in his hand. Then he'd tossed it back to the cat, but the kitty had no interest in a _dead _bunny. The nasty feline wasn't even hungry. All it had wanted was a toy to torment. A toy which would squirm, and squeal.

Which Will hadn't, obviously.

_Do all high-spirited __animals__ relish pointless barbarity? _Jack wondered, glaring contemptuously at the drunk, departing mutineers. Snatching a rum-bottle from the lazy fingers of one of the exiting pirates, he bit out the cork, and took a hard swig from it itself to steady himself. It was the good stuff- dark, sweet, quality Barbadian rum. Black, liquid gold, basically. _Shame to waste it. _

Fingering Will's torn shirt off his other, dislocated shoulder, Jack tipped a trickle of the Barbadian rum onto his fingertips, then started dabbing it in Will's countless wounds.

Just now, Will reminded him Bill, of that time Bill had gotten in a fight with a fisherman with the personality of a barracuda, who'd been serenading Bill's girl, Molly. Bill would've won too, if the fisherman hadn't had friends. 

_And I were right in there bloodying Bill up with the rest of 'em, trying to prove to Molly that I were better than Bill, tryin' to steal her back, _Jack recalled.

After all, she'd been _his_ girl first, before Bill and his raffish smile and seawater eyes stole her fickle heart. In the end though, Jack had switched sides, and helped Bill fight off the fishermen's gang. The gang won, of course, and robbed the two daring young pirates of everything but their trousers, then, after seeing the 'P' branded into Jack's forearm, they'd left the two tied up to base of the docks at low tide, so that they'd drown 'like the vermin they were' when high tide rolled in. It had been up to Molly to save the day that time. They'd all had a merry laugh about it afterwards, and Bill wholeheartedly forgave Jack- after knocking out his left top incisor. Jack slid his tongue over the gold replacement tooth. _Bill and me were younger than Will then,_ Jack recalled in amazement. _Starry-eyed, adventure-huntin', naïve, doltish teens. Aye, those were the days... _

Jack suddenly realized- _that_ was why it had been so oddly exhilarating sailing with this impossible, straight-laced blacksmith! _Because Will looks so _darn_ much like Bootstrap. _The very sight of Will brought Jack back to those bygone days, made him feel young again.

Well, when Will didn't look like a mauled bunny, anyway.

The lad's loose curls clung like black webs to his bloodied cheeks. As Jack brushed the hair out of Will's face, he drew in a sharp breath. An ugly blue bruise was forming on Will's jaw, right beside his trim mustache, and another one splotched between his ear and eye. A long gash stretched from the back of his ear, down his jaw, and far down his neck, overlapping the slit from where Barbossa had sacrificed Will's blood. A sickening sliver of white collarbone peeked through the end of the deep red cut.

Will was young, and healthy, and bodies were designed to heal... but there was a limit to what _anyone_ could take.

_And they were 'jus' gettin' started'..._ Jack thought nauseously.

Too soon, Antonio returned with the sail kit, then shuffled off again at a signal from Barbossa.

Jack ominously flipped the lid of the small tin case, and picked up the large needle and one of the colorful spools of thread with slightly shaky fingers. The last thing he could remember _sewing_ was a voodoo doll of Barbossa- that the traveling salesman he'd bought it off of for a copper had assured him was well worth the thirty shillings. _Swindler. _

After he'd threaded the needle, Jack realized there were no shears. Experimentally, he tried biting the thread loose. The sharp tug on his teeth reminded him why he hated dentists. "May I have a knife, please?" Jack asked politely.

"I think not," Barbossa drawled.

"Oh come _on,_ yer the one with the guns. Guns _always _win."

"Make do."

Scowling, Jack turned back to his rum-drenched 'patient'. Prying Will's thin lips open, he poured four swallows of the remaining rum down the smith's throat, thinking, _He'll need somethin' ta kill the pain, 'afore the pain kills __him__._

There was a sputtering cough. "I- don' drink..." Will mumbled feebly, lapsing into consciousness.

_Oh dang, I really don't want ta hafta do this when he's awake... _Jack griped mentally. Hastily, he pinched Will's nose shut, and forced the last of the rum down the boy's throat.

"Y- you're a, a bloo'y villain," Will choked out harshly, and almost incoherently, gasping for breath.

"And _yer_ bloody stupid," Jack retorted, "And kinda just, ya know, _bloody." _Getting a thought, he banged the now-empty rum-bottle into the nearby deck-wood, shattering it. It felt good to hit _something. _

Eying Jack's needle with dizzily dilated pupils, Will guessed spitefully, "Figured you'd, join i- in on the_ fun?_"

Picking up an arrowhead-shaped, three-inch long shard of green bottle-glass, Jack used one of the glossy razor edges to cut the thread loose from the spool. "Hold still," he ordered.

"So you can- kill me better?"

"I'm not," Jack insisted uncertainly. Closing his eyes, which probably wasn't the brainiest move, he jabbed the needle into the lowest corner of the zig-zag cut marring Will's abs, since that was where Will was losing the most blood.

Will hissed savagely between clenched teeth, and jerked back sharply, nearly making the string tear through his skin. Obviously, that heavy dose of numbing alcohol hadn't _quite_ kicked in yet. "Then wha- what _are _you – doing?" the lad coughed in agony, once he could speak.

"Using you as a pincushion, apparently," Jack said, jabbing the needle in again, and stoically ignoring the way Will's eyes bulged. "But what I _would_ be doing," Jack went on casually, "is sailing off raiding, pillaging and plundering my weasely black guts out now, if only you hadn't noticed my hat, in that smithy."

Aye, meeting Bootstrap's kid had never been part of the plan. It presented an opportunity Jack had never even considered... and had touched off a very strange fuse of events. And now things were blowing all to pieces in the wind.

"So ya see," Jack finished, tugging the thread tight to pinch the flesh together, "it's really all_ yer _fault yer here now, gettin' skewered by 'ol Jack. You and yer keen eyes, and neat-freakiness. And if you hadn't given the medallion yer father sent ya to Missy Swann as a lover's token-"

"It was- not!" Will protested.

"Then how _did_ she come across it?" Jack wasn't too curious- he just wanted to keep Will talking.

Will's rough, blood-slippery hand clutched desperately around Jack's wrist.

Glancing down, Jack noticed, with mounting disgust, that three of Will's fingernails were completely torn off.

Jack's thoughts strayed back to that voodoo doll. He'd done all manner of nastiness to it- stabbed it, jabbed needles in it, drowned it in a bottle of lemon juice, ripped its little cloth head off, and scorched it to a crisp in boiling oil- but obviously, nothing had worked. _Then again, Hector was cursed at the time, so who knows? _It was a morbidly satisfactory thought.

"Jack," Will rasped, "call it a last request- but please-_ please_ keep Miss Swann and the children safe!"

"No," Jack retorted acidly, yanking his wrist free from Will's clutch. "What'dda I mind what befalls_ them_ two scraps of flotsam, or that poxy, ship-arsonist strumpet of yers?"

"Jack?" Will whispered hoarsely.

"An' don't think fer an instant I care what befalls _you _eiver, whelp. You've just been a card in my hand from the start- and so easily played too. And as soon as I've finished playing my round, you'll get discarded."

Will stared back at Jack like Jack were Satan's fishing buddy. "You never were truly friends with my father, were you?" the smith deduced hollowly.

"Knack fer statin' the obvious, hasn't he?" Barbossa drawled.

"Oh, I were," Jack answered Will seriously. "Indeed, I were. Best of mates."

"That's worse."

"That's life."

It was cruel, yeah, but Jack needed Will to stay angry. Stay fighting. Have something to live for, even if the something was just, 'kill that scurvy Jack Sparrow who's wrecked my world'. _I'll explain everything later._

"You shoulda known our deal was too good on yer end," Jack sneered, as he moved on to Will's neck-wound. "Me, sailing off ta help you save yer leman-love, from cursed skeleton pirates, and all_ I_ get was-"

"Sprung fr- from Fort Charles' jail and saved from hanging?" Will reminded him dully, drooping like a wilted plant.

"Ah, but what was _your_ guarantee_ I'd _hold up on _my _side of the bargain once you sprung me?"

"Blind trust, evidently."

"Simpleton," Jack retorted snarkily. _Oh, if only there were __some__ way I could hint Will off I'm not a __total__ weasel-hearted cad... _he wished, while sewing up the last inch of Will's collarbone gash. With the mismatched, colorful strings hanging loose from amateurly-knotted stitches, Will looked a lot like that voodoo ragdoll now. Only minus the yarn beard. Also, he spookily resembled a zombie. Positively nightmarish.

Will was losing the most blood from his shot foot now, but Jack didn't want to risk stitching that wound, fearing the bullet might still be in there. So, untying his rosy-striped sash from around his waist, Jack tugged the shard of glass through the weave, cutting it into frayed strips- and cutting his fingers, accidentally. But compared to Will's wounds, Jack knew his own were trivial. He tied one of the long strips snugly around Will's foot wound, then bandaged up the rest of the poorly-sewn stitches.

Now Will looked like an Egyptian mummy. A mummy which had been mutilated by tomb robbers.

For one insane moment, Jack began desperately hoping that 'Queen Lucy' wasn't kidding about her fantasy fairy-world of hers, which reportedly had such handy nick-knacks as magic cordials that healed all wounds. _If Will were a dog, I'd have put 'im out of his misery._ _Even if he's __not__ a dog, I __should__ put him out of his misery,_ Jack thought dangerously, his eyes straying to the large, green, rum-sticky shard of bottle-glass clenched in his blood-flecked fist.

Forcing the notion far away, Jack secretly tucked the glass shard under the black rag tied around his palm. Knotting off Will's last stitch, Jack said, "There now, isn' that jus' _sew _much better?"

Apparently unimpressed with Jack's shallow attempt at a pun, Will mumbled, _"Hilarious_. You leave me in stitches." His eyes rolled back in his head, but not just from exasperation. He went limp again.

Jack was simmering now.

All the raw anger pulsing through his nerves and veins was threatening to fuddle up his conniving mind. Masking it expertly, he checked Will's pulse to make sure he wasn't dead, then stood up, wishing his knees hadn't turned to wax. "Curiosity talkin', here..." he said casually, now that Will was safely out of it, "but isn' there somefin' in the code against keepin' women an' children aboard?"

"_Guidelines,_ Jack," Barbossa countered. "An' I thought ye didn't_ care _none."

"I don't!" Jack insisted zealously. "I'm on yer side a hundred percent, Hector, lock, stock, and barrel! Why, I simply cannot _wait _ta join you in blazing through that rich, uncharted Narvia fairyland like a band of conquistadors, like yer hero, Cortez!"

"Unless that fairyland be jest the sun-stroke-induced hallucinations of a demented, former maroonee."

"Guess yer sharin' me hallucination then, if you've seen the faun," Jack commented lightly. "Of course, I _suppose_ there's always the slim possibility those hooves were just some nasty birth defects- nastily merged toenails or suchlike. Either that, or an insane, Greek-mythology obsessed taxidermist got ahold of the kid, and performed some unnecessary amputations and fur-graftings. Unlikely."

"_Very."_

"I could also make maps of your otherworldly conquests- I _am_ a dab hand at cartography, you'll recall," Jack reminded Barbossa winningly.

"Aye, Jack, yer charts of the bearings ta the Isla de Muerta's _accursed_ shores were _powerful _handy."

"And quite pretty."

Sauntering forward alarmingly, making Jack step backwards, Barbossa cornered him up against a cannon, leering perilously close. From under his monkey-topped, feathered hat, the mutineer lisped, "I wager yer up to some sorta mischief, mate."

"Who, _me?" _Jack replied innocently, leaning backwards over the iron cannon, away from Barbossa's breath, which smelt powerfully of apples, and mingled nauseatingly with the monkey's banana-scented breath. _I'll never be able ta eat a fruit salad again, _Jack thought bleakly.

"Since I can't help wondering, Jack, why ye're being so helpful and all? Last time you did that, it didn't end so well for you. Or me."

"_You_ mutinied on _me, _not the other way around," Jack pointed out, wondering how much farther back his spine could bend without snapping. "If you'd just _talked_ things through in a civilized manner, an' voted me out of captaincy proper, instead'a havin' me pounced in the witching hour of night, blindfolded, beaten up so's I could scarcely stand, and marooned on a spit of an island, then things could've been nice and shiny between we two. But nooo..."

"Ye ne'er could stand straight even a_fore_ we pummeled ya," Barbossa said with half a snicker. "Lets not dance around facts, Jack, I know ye'd love ta see me stiff as rocks an' sewed in a sail. What be ye wantin'?"

"What I've always wanted," Jack murmured softly, his gaze sweeping a wide circle around the black-wood interior of the orlop deck. "The Black Pearl is menacing and all, but_ look _at her! She's practically an antique. Fallin' to shreds. Fast, yes, she's _frightful_ fast, but brave pirates like you don't _need_ to flee. Follow my suggestion of usin' the curse as a tool, and you can be a _very_ big fish in a _very_ small pond _very _soon. You'll rule the Spanish Main, mate. But why stop there? There are seven seas. Capture some prizes, build a fleet!"

Barbossa drew backwards out of Jack's face finally, looking contemplative.

"But see, me, I have a nostalgic fondness for black sailcloth," Jack continued, pushing himself off the cannon with his elbows, and plunging on before he lost his nerve. "Name me captain of the Pearl, I sail for you as part of your fleet, I give you fifteen percent of my plunder, and you get to introduce yourself at tea parties and brothels as _'Admiral _Barbossa.' Course, you'll be wantin' a really fantastical warship worthy of your legendary stature fer your flagship, a really first-rate, grandiose, razzmatazz ship, a ship like..." Almost like magic, outside the nearest gunport, Jack spotted a small dot on the horizon- hardly more than a pale freckle against the orange skyline. But it was a freckle with_ sails_. "...um, _that,"_ he finished smugly.

Joining Jack by the small gunport, Barbossa stared curiously out yonder, his eyes gleaming like beetle wings.

"Do we have an accord?" Jack asked.

"Depends on how 'razzmatazz' that ship thar is. An' I demand fifty percent of yer plunder."

"Sixteen percent."

"Fifty percent."

"Seventeen."

"Fifty."

"Eighteen."

"_Fifty."_

"Nineteen."

"_Fifty."_

"I'm not entirely sure ya grasp the concept of haggling, Hector," Jack sighed in vexation.

"_Fifty."_

"Twenty percent."

"Fifty,_final_ offer."

It was over thrice as much as Jack had first suggested. _But... _His kohl-framed eyes strayed to the battered, scarecrow of a blacksmith crumpled near the cannon, in a pool of red. _...That could be me, _Jack knew. _Easily._ So he made a tactical decision.

Reluctantly, he stuck out his gashed sword-arm toward his old first mate.

Seizing Jack's bloody hand in his fingerless black glove, Barbossa sealed their deal with a matey shake.


	19. Epiphany

Author's Note: In case I haven''t mentioned yet, here's a short casting note- the werewolf chick Jadis is currently possessing is played by Lucy Lawless, as she appears in the 'Xena Warrior Princess' series. I always thought Xena would make a simply smashing Jadis.

Author's Note 2: Sorry this tale takes so long to update, and sorry this chapter is so short. But never fear, the next chap will be infinitely longer. ;)

* * *

-Chapter 19: Epiphany-

* * *

Suddenly, Jadis laughed.

It was, Peter had to admit, about the polar opposite of the canned laughter so commonly used to fill the gaps of reel time in silver screen comedies, at movie theaters. Jadis's laugh wasn't a titter or a chuckle- it was bright and clear and gleeful, almost girlish, really, if you ignored the slight rasp.

Peter glanced her way, craning his twinging neck to try to see over an exiled Archenland warrior, whose plumed helmet was so polished, that the midday sun glared off it in blinding lines of light. Since Peter's wrists were chained behind his back, with a longer chain running down to his feet, which were also chained, he could only take very short steps without the chains jerking his wrists down hard, making his shoulder and neck ache. And since he'd tried to escape several times, his neck was somewhat worse for wear. Not to mention his feet.

Batty wasn't much better off, crammed into a birdcage much too small for him, so that his tawny-freckled feathers poked out every which way. The cage was hung on a long hook on the side of the camel-driven caravan.

Finally, Peter managed to twist his torso and wrench his elbow out of Arnald Macready's tough grip long enough to get a glance at Jadis' face- well, the face of the werewolf maiden Jadis was possessing, anyway. Jadis' stolen eyes were just as bright and clear and gleeful as her laugh, but far less pleasant. Their inky surface seemed glossy and deadly now, like a poison dart frog's venom.

"What a dolt I've been," Jadis stated bemusedly, at long last. Her ratty black hair fell over her face as she collapsed in heaving snickers against one of the huge, mossy boulders surrounding the cave entrance.

Her assorted highwaybeasts, rogues, and thugs guarding the cave stiffened out of their bored slumps, looking curious and wary.

"Surely not, my Queen, surely never," the armadillo said cautiously.

"Your clevernessss and cunningnesss outsssshine all who know thee," the colossal black boa constrictor added subserviently, dipping its front coils into a strange version of a bow.

"Which is_ why, _naturally," Jadis giggled behind her tangly hair, "I haply romped out here to the very borders of the Narnian and Archenland wilds, bivouacking here nigh a fortnight and commanding every pebble of this cavern to be searched, and posting droves of minions to guard both entrances when, ha ha!_ All_ this time... I, he he ha, could have, simply, summoned the absentee son of Adam and daughters of Eve, with..." Slightly weakened by her convulsive laughter, Jadis staggered over to the nearby caravan, rummaged through a velvet pouch, and pulled out, "_...This," _she crooned, holding up Susan's white horn triumphantly.

"You've convinced me," Melancholy Fenlump croaked finally, in her damp, vapid Marshwiggle voice. "You _are_ a dolt."

All the humor drained from Jadis' lovely, stolen face, as her ebony eyes locked on the Marshwiggle. Stiffly, the Witch said, "Then we have something in common, hideous, repugnant, bog-creeping toad."

"You mean besides our good looks?" Mel retorted sarcastically.

Abruptly, Jadis screeched a foul-sounding word with syllables so strange it might as well have been Swahili or Zoroastrian, for all Peter could tell. One dark instant later, in Mel's place, there stood a statue of a rather pretty Marshwiggle with broomstick arms crossed, dreadlocked head tilted, and a smug, thread-lipped smirk below her slitted nose. Mel's blue freckles were grey, her mossy dreadlocks were grey, her primrose-pink pocket hankie was grey, her orange eyes were grey, and suddenly, the whole world seemed greyer too.

Predictably enough, Batty freaked out. His owl eyes went as huge as tea saucers, and he began quivering uncontrollably from ear-tufts to talons. "MELLLLLLLLL! _NOOOOOOOOO!_ OH MEL, MY DEAREST FRIEND AND LIFELONG NEIGHBOR! IT CAN'T BE TRUE-HOO!" The cage started rocking back and forth crazily on its hook, and Batty buried his head under his wing, sobbing his woes to his downy feathers.

"_Wicked.._." Arnald whispered admiringly, gawking slack-jawed past Peter's neck, at the Marshwiggle statue.

"She's d_ead, _you git!" Peter snarled over his shoulder, kicking the iron ring around his ankle _hard_ into Arnald's shin.

"Ow! Er, I mean- I meant wicked as in evil, yeah,_ evil," _the Macready corrected hastily. But he still seemed impressed.

Peter was getting pretty _dang _sick of Arnald. For one thing, he was a twerp- but then again, that was probably all part and parcel of being a Macready, so maybe his genes were to blame for that. Also, Arnald smelled weirdly of sweat, stale licorice bubble gum and shaving cream, even though _obviously,_ he was too young for shaving cream. Neither of those facts would have been such a big deal if not for the third, _annoying_ fact that Jadis had appointed Arnald to be Peter's personal guard.

Taking a breath deep enough to inflate a party balloon with one blow, Peter tried calm down, tried to put himself in Arnald's shoes. Not literally, of course, but that would have been pretty helpful too, since Peter was still barefoot. His own feet were cruelly chafed by this point, and the blisters had gotten to the point where they were cracked, rubbed raw, and oozing yellow pus.

_What are Arnald's motives? _Peter wondered. _Well... the little weevil likes Susan, doesn't he? _"You _have_ to help me stop the Witch, Macready," Peter muttered over his shoulder to the thicker-necked boy. "She's going to kill Susan, you know."

"I said I thought your sister was hot, I didn't say I'd _die _for her," Arnald retorted.

"You said a hell of a lot more than just _'hot',_" Peter reminded him acidly.

"Whatever."

"Git."

Jadis peered up hypnotically, cocking her strong, defined neck to the side with a slight cracking noise. "Where was I?" she trilled. "Ah yes, Peter dear, you must be lonely."

"Actually," Peter scoffed, elbowing his 'guard' in the ribs, "I could do with a little _less _company."

Ignoring the former High King, Jadis lisped with mock-compassion, "Poor boy. You must be missing your siblings."

Peter shrugged dismissively against his rusty fetters, saying, "Nah, honestly, they can get rather tiresome. So I'm fine, really."

Smirking sweetly, Jadis rasped, "Nothing lasts."

Then, raising her stolen lips to the ivory mouthpiece, she blew Susan's horn.


	20. Saltwater Showdown

Author's Note: Well, here it is at last, the _insanely_ long chapter I mentioned. I very much apologize for the wait- (has it really been nearly two months?)- but you see, I've been a bit distracted with tearing up old rugs and putting linoleum down in my rundown, over 100-year-old country farmhouse, and dealing with the malfunctioning plumbing. Also, I was winging this chapter, and it turned out _way_ longer than I'd ever intended...

My thanks go out to anyone who's still reading. :)

Now then, without further ado...

* * *

**-Chapter 20: Saltwater Showdown-**

* * *

It felt like the air itself had died. _Died along with Will,_ Elizabeth thought, in silent, wild despair. A small hand tugged her by the wrist, and she ducked to avoid hitting her sweaty forehead on the bottom of the stair banister, as she was pulled beneath the black wood steps.

Jack's words kept pounding in her head, like an undying echo:

_'Why not use young William the Second as bait?'_

_'Wouldn't it give things an intriguing flavor of poetical vengeance, were ya to.. say... kill Bootstrap's whelp in front of his very eyes?'_

_'Name me captain of the Pearl...'_

Standing on her tiptoes, young Queen Lucy whispered in Elizabeth's ear, "Oh, do stop _fretting, _Miss Elizabeth_, _we have Aslan on our side! We'll save him yet!"

"If Barbossa and Sparrow_ left _anything for us to save," Elizabeth whispered back fiercely, wondering who the deuce 'Aslan' was. The _only _positive thing she could think about Jack right now, was that at_ least_ when he'd sashayed off to have his gruesome little 'tête-à-tête' with Barbossa, he'd been accompanied by the only brig guard, Dogear. Better yet, upon leaving, Dogear hadn't even noticed Mr. Marty's stubby little arm shoot through the square bars, nabbing the keys from his pocket. That _had_ to be harder then it looked. That midget was probably a professional pickpocket. But this line of thought only lasted an instant, before Elizabeth went back to despising Jack Sparrow, and hissing hushed insults through her gritted teeth. "Bloody villainous turncoat! Feckless, trashy, _scoundrelly, _sorry excuse for a-"

Grassroot jabbed his pointy faun elbow into her ribs. Holding a slender, knobby-knuckled finger up to his thread-thin lips, then moving it up past his eyes and horns a few inches higher, he pointed to the stairs overhead. They were creaking ominously.

Elizabeth crouched down lower, nearly to her knees, trying not to gasp, not to breathe. She could have sworn Barbossa's crew would all be down in some storeroom, lying stone-drunk around an empty keg of rum, or beer, or gin, or some other filthy, common, alcoholic swill. But though the pirates coming down the stairs were tipsy, obviously, they weren't at the point of passing out yet. They were also singing. Loudly. And _atrociously_ off-key.

"_So let every man, drink up 'is full bumper, oh, an let every lad, drink up 'is full glass, oh aye, we'll drink an' be jolleee... an', an'... uh... _give us the next words again, mate?"

"-And drown melancholy!"

"Aye,_ an' drown melancholy! An' 'ere's to the health of each true-'earted lass!"_

"_We'll rant an' we'll roar, like true British sailors, we'll rant and we'll roar, all on the salt sea_!"

"_Yo ho, yo ho, a pirates life for me!_ Ha-heh-haw-ha!"

Elizabeth felt sick to think she'd ever sung piratical ditties herself; sick to think she'd ever been infatuated with pirates. _Wretched, damnable, torturing bullies! _Her eyes were getting painfully dry- since she didn't even dare to blink.

But then, the unluckiest, rottenest thing happened- the _Black Pearl _lurched, and one of the pirates tripped on the stairs, tumbling greasy head over filthy heels.

It was the wooden-eyed pirate, the blond, twiggy one who'd helped capture her from her mansion in the first place. Regetti. He landed face-forward, right in front of Elizabeth, draped upside-down on the steep stairs. Staring stupidly through one of the spaces between the steps, his one good eye caught sight of the escapees huddled underneath. "There!" he yapped, accidentally banging his nose on one of the steps as he yanked his head back, and scrambled to his knees. "Down there- blimey!" he gasped, pointing a flagpole-thin arm through the steps. "Under the stairs!"

The heavy patter of creaky footsteps grew quicker.

Quicker yet.

More stumbling noises.

Nowhere to run.

Then, a burly, balding shadow loomed up on the little triangle of wall beneath the stairs, lit by a spluttering, dying oil lamp. "Ello, poppet," leered an all too familiar croak. Crooked teeth split into a grin, and eyes the color of rancid butter glittered dangerously. With an exaggerated swaying motion, Pintel tugged his long pistol out of his belt, and aimed it into the shadowy corner-nook.

Elizabeth and the other escapees were unarmed. It was already over.

There were five drunks all told- Pintel, his one-eyed scarecrow friend Regetti, Simbakka, Grapple, and some other pirate Elizabeth couldn't put a name to- a snickering Islander with a colorful headband wrapped around his curly black hair, making it puff up on top like broccoli. As Pintel and the Islander pointed their sloppily-aimed flintlocks at the escapees, the other three set right to work terrorizing the cornered prisoners.

"Now _what_ 'ave we 'ere?" Grapple asked, always in the front lines when it came to causing mischief.

"Couldn't _possibly_ be the captives, could it?" Pintel sneered obnoxiously. "Them bein' all snug in their cell. Naw, gotta be rats."

"Rat infestation's gettin' worse though, ain't it?" snorted the Islander. "Lookkit da size o' dem buggers!"

"An' you _knows_ how we deals with rats..." Simbakka fingered his long, jagged knife with a wicked grin, as Pintel and the Islander lazily tugged their pistols' hammers to full cock.

"Now fellas," began a chap in Jack's crew- Elizabeth didn't know his name, only that he had straggly hair and a straw hat, and currently sounded petrified- "hold yer fire, fellas, surely we can get this sorted peaceable-like-"

Without blinking, Pintel shot the straw hat chap through the skull.

"-Or not..." Mr. Gibbs muttered quietly.

"See, _that's_ what a gun does," Lucy whispered to the faun.

"Is it magic?" he whispered back.

"No, just-"

"Hands up!" Pintel barked.

The escapees hastily obeyed.

"Check em fer weapons," Pintel added, to his mates, while reaching in his pocket to grab another wad of powder and shot to stick into his empty gun.

Grapple, Regetti, and Simbakka seemed to be having a_ bit_ too much fun with this assignment, roughly patting Jack's crew down, and rummaging into pockets, and under hats, and up sleeves, and down shirt-fronts and boots. Elizabeth silently suffered the indignity of having Regetti's long, chopstick fingers spider all over her night-gowned body. She didn't move, she didn't stomp on his toes, and she didn't punch his nose in, as she _dearly_ wished too, because she didn't want to provoke his armed, drunken pals into shooting. _They __might hit Lucy, or Grassroot,_ she kept telling herself. But Elizabeth's raised hands did ball into fists when Grapple grunted,

"I don' think ya checked 'er _thorough_ enough." Then he shoved Regetti aside, and began conducting his own, much rougher, inspection. Which was utterly _stupid,_ because, as anyone could _see_ at a glance, there was no possible place she_ could _be concealing weapons under her clingy white shift. It was about as ridiculous as her having a rudder and a lot of sails tucked in her bodice. And good heavens, she wasn't even that sonsy! In fact, as her _dear_ father put it, she was 'unfashionably-flat-chested' for her age. Which was why he recommended she wear corsets. Grapple's scabby fingers moved from Elizabeth's ankles, to knees, to thighs, to hips, to waist, to bosom, and then he was fingering through her hair. As if she could _possibly_ hide any weapons in there. _Beastly tramp, _she growled mutely_._ Finally though, Grapple moved on to search Mr. Cotton, a lot less 'thoroughly'. The only thing the search had turned up so far was the keyring from Marty.

Despite the scowls on the captives' faces, the searches went on quietly- until Simbakka made the phenomenal mistake of feeling Anamaria's trouser pocket inappropriately from behind. Suddenly, his elbow was being twisted backwards with a popping noise, at what looked like an excruciatingly painful slant.

"Does _dis_ belong ta you?" Anamaria hissed in a sizzling cold tone, as she shoved Simbakka's long arm in his face, knocking his green felt hat off with the force of her shove.

_Well I'm glad __somebody__ got to do it,_ Elizabeth thought smugly.

"Heh-heh-ha, she got spunk that one, ya gotta admit, mate," Regetti sniggered, as he pulled off Jack's dead crewman's straw hat, and tried it on for size. "Spunk by the bucketful!" The hat was too big for the scarecrow pirate, so he dropped it, and started looking with wary interest at Anamaria's floppy, shell-trimmed hat, like someone who's wondering whether it's worth the risk to try to snatch a juicy bone from an angry crocodile.

"Ow-ow..." Simbakka whimpered piteously, moving his arm in a little circle while rubbing his shoulder tentatively. "...ey, I used to be able ta crack me whole neck backwards without a twitch- how come pain's so much more _painful _now?"

"Same reason pleasure's so much more_ pleasurable," _Grapple retorted, his cockroach eyes roaming back to Elizabeth. More precisely, her (admittedly flattish) bust-line.

With an aghast look on his ageless face, Grassroot stood on his tip-hooves, and muttered quietly below Elizabeth's ear, "I _think_ that certain of these ruffians mean to take you and Lady Anamaria to wife."

"I think they mean worse than _that_," Elizabeth muttered tautly.

The faun's ears pulled back, his eyebrows scrunched down, and he started bristling like a indignant porcupine. Jumping spryly in front of Grapple, he said hotly, "You shall not give offense nor harm to these ladies, nor my Queen, nor these... other folk. Prepare to be slitted into more slices than a loaf of bread if you but_ try_ to lay one filthy hand on them!"

"You mean besides what he did already?" Elizabeth asked dryly.

"You _might_ want to work on your threats, Grassroot," Lucy sighed quietly from behind him. "Honestly- 'more slices than a loaf of bread'?"

"Well, what_ else_ do you slice?" Grassroot asked irritably over his knobby shoulder.

"Uh... salami? Cheese? Turkey? Watermelon?"

Grassroot sniffed sarcastically. "Oh, _those_ sound terrifying."

"Well you _could've_ just said you'd slice him to ribbons," Lucy pointed out.

"'Ribbons' sounds even sillier!" the faun argued irritably. "Who slices_ ribbons_, except for to tie birthday parcels?"

"How you gonna slice _anyone _ta _anythin'_, widout a sword, mate?" Mr. Marty asked Grassroot sensibly.

"Aye, whatch'er gonna do," Grapple mocked,_ "claw _us ta death?"

"Don't put it past me," Grassroot menaced sharply, flexing his slim fingers.

Grapple, Simbakka, Pintel, and the Islander started hooting and guffawing again, but Regetti slurred almost soberly, "Careful, mates, fauns is magical, they are." But then he burst out cackling too.

As Grassroot glared, the Islander began singing again, in a wobbly, off-key tone, a song Elizabeth had never heard before. The only words she managed to catch were: _"The bells have gone down ta their watery graves, ya-dada-de-da-de-da-dum!"_

Joining in on the song, Grapple sang loudly, _"The keys to the keep, and the devil ta pay, Never shall we die!"_

"Not a terribly appropriate song to sing-" Lucy began.

"Oooh, the lyrics affright ya, do they, girly?" Grapple interrupted her tauntingly, twirling his massive grappling hook in her unimpressed face.

"-now that you're not_ immortal _anymore, I mean to _say,"_ Lucy finished primly, ignoring the pirate's boorish attitude. "That 'never shall we die' stuff doesn't really apply anymore, does it?"

"Dying's an option again," Elizabeth reminded Grapple in a tone as silky a katana sheath. "_Don't_ forget it."

"Threatenin' me too, are ye, pussy?" Grapple asked her perilously.

"Oh, rather."

"Gonna slice me up like a bloomin' watermelon?" he jibed, and then began laughing raucously again.

The others joined in too, hiccuping, snorting and swaying and tripping, weakening themselves silly with laughter, falling on each others shoulders, and singing in whiny, slurred voices, with hazy eyes, and alcohol-drenched throats and sleeves.

They really were _slovenly _drunk. Elizabeth couldn't tell which was swaying more- the drunk pirates, or the ship. She wondered how long the _Pearl_'s alcohol casks would last, if there was even any un-drunk liquor left on board, and what Barbossa's pirates would do to her when they reached Jack's spit-of-an-island, and found out she'd been lying about there being '_crates and crates_' of rum there.

Once the merriment abated, Grapple slipped his hook around Elizabeth's slim neck, tugging her away from the others.

Grassroot and Lucy jolted forwards, but were halted by Regetti's cutlass, which sliced the dusty air just above them. "Good thing yer short," he said seriously, before breaking out in hysterical giggles, as if he'd just said the funniest, wittiest one-liner in the world.

Then one of Grassroot's hooves kicked up, and sent Regetti's sword flying out of his fingers. Grassroot expertly caught it by the blade without cutting his hand-

-But before he managed to flip it around to the proper fighting position, Pintel kicked him in the back, sending him tumbling. Before the faun could spring upright, Simbakka stepped on Grassroot's tawny hair with one boot, pinning his cheek to the deck, and then pricked the point of his jagged carving knife down into the hollow of Grassroot's writhing spine, leaving a shallow wound.

"Stop it!" Lucy hollered at the pirates.

"Aye, ya beastie little faun thing," said Pintel, re-positioning his gun to point directly at Lucy, _"stop_ it."

Grassroot saw the danger his queen was in, and instantly ceased struggling.

As the Islander whistled a tune, Grapple removed the grappling hook from Elizabeth's neck, stuck it back in its leather holding strap, caught one of her slender wrists, and tugged it up. In a horrid imitation of a dance, he twirled her around roughly enough to joggle the brain, then dipped her low by the waist.

"So now that Mr. Turna's dead, I'd reckon yer single again, ain'tcha, Mrs. Turner?" Grapple asked in a shockingly business-like tone.

"Will and I aren't married, and-" feeling her tongue stick dryly to the roof of her mouth, Elizabeth added edgily, "-what do you mean by, 'dead'?"

"Oh, so yer his sister, hey?" Pintel guessed.

"What do you mean by '_dead_'?" Elizabeth snarled shearingly.

"Oh right, if you _was_ his sister, _yer_ blood would've worked ta lift the curse," Pintel reasoned, still ignoring her. "My mistake."

Regetti rotated his wooden eye thoughtfully, then asked, "Are' ya Turner's 'alf-sister then? On yer mum's side?"

"But 'den she wouldn't be called Turner, would she?" asked the Islander.

"Ah, unless ol' Bill didn' _know_," Simbakka added with a wink.

"No, I lied. My name's Elizabeth Swann, never Turner- now _what do you __mean_by _dead_?" she all but snarled, shoving Grapple so hard in the chest that he let go of her waist, letting her fall back-first to the deck.

"So ya _are _single?" Grapple inquired, looming over her like a vulture.

"No, duncecap," Pintel scoffed knowledgeably, looking puffed-up with the fact that he knew something Grapple didn't, "'er surname's _Swann,_ jus' like Gov'nor Weatherby_ Swann_ of Jamaica. Ya know? Him? Bit of a big-wig, a really posh, titled gent?_ That_ Gov' Swann? And we nabbed 'er from the gov's mansion, we did. Now, followin' clean logic, she mus' be the gov'nor's wife, see."

"Heavens, no!" Elizabeth exclaimed, wincing as she pushed herself up into a sitting position.

"Sister?" Simbakka guessed.

Giving them all a supremely sarcastic look, Elizabeth enunciated with crystal clarity, _"Is_ Will Turner dead?"

"'alf-sister?" Regetti wondered.

"Daughter, gotta be daughter, right?"

Elizabeth crossed her arms regally, refusing to answer.

"She hasn' say no. That mean she ees," the Islander decided bluntly.

"_As_ Sparrow already so unhelpfully mentioned back in the caves," Lucy snapped. "Don't you people _ever_ pay attention?"

"Gov'nor's daughters is worf fortunes!" Regetti crooned gleefully.

Grapple shot him a bleary glare, and growled, "Hang the ransom spoils, we _ain't _givin' 'er back." Bending down, he grabbed Elizabeth's elbow, and yanked her upright again, tugging her close to his sweaty chest, in a mock-protective stance.

Elizabeth tried squirming out from under his beefy arm, but it was as pointless as trying to reel in a whale with a fishing pole. Getting a thought, she said, "Gentlemen, my father is a man of sentiment and magnanimity. Were you to find it in your chequered consciences to sunder yourselves from the life of roving and the black hoist, and reunite me and my comrades with him, he would no doubt find it in his good graces to amply reimburse you for your tribulations, and ensure that you may traverse the seas untrammeled and without fear of naval retribution."

"Long words..." Pintel muttered.

"Bring us to my dad, you get rich _and_ pardoned."

"And hung."

"No, pardoned." Elizabeth knew that pardons were far more tempting bait than coinage to pirates. At least, that's what she'd read.

"That's a lie," Pintel growled. "An' anyhoo, it's not like the Admiralty Courts would let us '_legally_' spend all that loot we been collectin' this past decade, aye? Nay, far better ta wait till we spent at least- what, three-quarters?"

"Four-fifths," said Simbakka.

"Five-sixths," Grapple retorted.

"Six-sevenths," the Islander corrected.

"-spent six-sevenths of it, in the grandest spendin' spree eva' known, afore we even _consider _such niceties as 'pardons' an' the decent life, right chums?" Pintel finished.

"Aye, right."

"Yeah!"

Clearing his throat, Gibbs said cautiously, "Er, well then... Aren't ye gents going to lock us up again yet?"

"Where's the fun in that?" Pintel asked blankly. "You guys, sure," he added, gesturing to the general crew, "who wants you? Yer boring. We're only interested in the dames."

_Well at least they're honest,_ Elizabeth thought sarcastically, as Anamaria stepped haughtily closer to the rest of the blokes in Jack's crew.

Grinning loathsomely, Grapple swayed his mutt face back to Elizabeth, and said, "Hate ta tell ya this, dearheart, but you was safer in yer cage..." His breath smelt of hard liquor- brandy and whiskey and perhaps a shot of arrack-

Suddenly, he was shoving her back up against a stair-rail, pinning her hair to the banister with his fist, bending her slightly backwards at an angle which hurt her spine, and making her elegant chin jut up. Tugging out his chained grappling hook again, he positioned one well-sharpened barb right below her chin, and started scratching a slender, pinprick line into her skin, down to the hollow of her throat, down to between her clavicle, and slowly down her breastbone, shearing through the top ties of her shift-

Elizabeth gave a shrill yelp, then bit her lip to keep from whimpering- though she couldn't stop the uncontrollable shiver racing through her bones.

"Lady Elizabeth!" Grassroot hissed desperately, ignoring the sword-tip pressed up against his back, and shoving and scratching at the boot pinning his hair to the planks, trying to kick his hooves into Simbakka's other boot.

"Let her _go_, you rotter!" Lucy commanded in an imperious voice that was far more queenly than little-girlish.

Abruptly, something metal whacked into the side of Grapple's head with a sharp jangle, accompanied by the words, "Tha's not very nice."

Grapple slithered to the ground with a 'thunk'.

And there, standing casually behind the toppled bully, was the dastardliest rogue of all, twirling a set of thrice-stolen keys on his finger. "Funny, I thought his head were thicker than that," Jack commented.

"It is," Anamaria replied derisively, scowling down at the toppled thug. "Ya only dazed 'im."

"Hurrah, you came to rescue us!" Lucy crowed in a bright, bubbly tone. "Oh, it's the captain! Oh Captain Sparrow, I _knew_ you weren't a total rat!"

Blinking down at the little queen in a daze, as though he'd never seen her before in his life, the captain replied, "Hold yer verdict, missy."

"What in bleedin' heck're _you _doin' 'avin' free roam of the _Pearl_?" Pintel exclaimed loudly.

With another knavish spin of the keys on his bloody fingertips, Jack replied, "Oh, didn' ya hear? I'm wiv you lot now! I'm the new assistant jailor!" Giving a gleaming, golden, jack-o-lantern grin, he called up the stairwell, "Ain't that right, Dogear?" as Dogear sauntered down beside him, his horsewhip gleaming in his hand.

Dogear spat at him.

Jack wiped the back of one hand up his cheek, glanced in aghast disgust at the bubbly, sticky saliva dribbling off his dirty fingernails, then flicked his wrist as sharply as if he were shaking off a tarantula. "So," he added, absently swiping his still-sticky hand clean on Regetti's sleeve, and then taking a wide pace backwards, "we'll be lockin' them prisoners back up now, gents. Dogear, if ya please."

Dogear's hefty arms went to his sash, and he yanked out two pre-cocked flintlocks.

"_We_ got pistols too," Pintel pointed out gruffly, remembering to re-cock his, and aiming it at Dogear. "Besides, I ain't so allfire certain Barbossa_ did_ let ol' rervenge-ridden Jacky there join us." The Islander's gun also took a bead on Dogear.

"Trust yer aim better'n mine, comrades?" Dogear sneered in his rodent voice. "Ya ferget, I missed the party. You blokes drank all the good stuff without me," he added accusingly. "So_ I _can see straight, ha!"

"So scram," Sparrow added to the other mutineers, as his jack-o-lantern grin grew back.

Ignoring all the guns, Elizabeth stormed straight up to Jack, and slapped that grin off his face, sending his beaded dreadlocks jangling.

Shaking his dazed head so that the beads clinked, and shifting his slack jaw around with his hand as if he was trying to mash it back in place, Jack said, "Oh I'm sorry, was I mistaken? I thought I was _rescuing_ you back there. I hadn't realized you'd found yerself a new dearest pirate love _already_. Is Grapple really yer type? Ow. _Ow._ Did I honestly deserve that?"

"And worse!" Elizabeth clenched her fist and pulled it back for a harder throw- but Jack nimbly dodged it, seized her flying wrist, and whipped it behind her back, making her twist around.

"My, how dreadfully ladylike," he scoffed, grabbing her other elbow, and pulling it behind her too.

Vile as Jack was, there was one question Elizabeth just _had_ to ask. "_Is _Will alive?"

"More or less. Doubt he'll be too pleased to learn you've moved on to taking_ Grapple_ as yer sweetheart, though."

Elizabeth's heart leaped, then tripped over itself when she remembered Will's silently-endured torture. The unseen memory made her blood boil. "I do hope you're very heat-tolerant, Mr. Sparrow, since the devil's going to be reserving a nice_ hot c_orner of hell for you," she grunted haughtily over her shoulder.

"I live in the bloody Caribbean, doll. Of _course _I'm heat-tolerant," Sparrow retorted cuttingly. "Personally though, I always imagined hell was cold. Leastwise the deepest circles. Which, oh _by_ the way," he added to the four remaining drunks, "is straight where betrayers and mutineers such as yourselves shall be going, and _very_ shortly, if ya loiter 'round much longer; eh Dogear?"

With many a grunted, drunken curse, Pintel, Regetti, Simbakka and the Islander shuffled off. Dogear re-aimed his guns at the escapees, who dutifully kept their hands up, and marched when Dogear hollered "MARCH!"

As soon as Sibakka's boot was off his hair and the sword was off his back, Grassroot leaped spryly to his hooves.

Lucy quickly tottered over to him and grabbed his arm before he could try anything rash. Even though the little queen was most remarkably brave for her age and gender, and practically unfazed by swords, she_ did_ tend to get cautious around guns.

As Jack began shoving Elizabeth along at the back of the group, she could feel something hot and sticky on her skin, rubbing off from his arm onto hers- and she wondered if it was Sparrow's blood, or Will's. _"Betrayers_ go to the deepest circles, do they?" she asked Jack nastily.

"Oh, Captain Jack," Lucy exclaimed in half a wail from up front, "how _could_ you just turn on us like that- on _Will_ like that! I _thought_ he was your _friend!"_

"Can't say what gave ya that impression."

"Well- you wanted to save him, same as the rest of us, right?"

"Correction, _Lizbef _wanted ta save him._ I _want me ship back," Jack countered, in a tone that made it brutally clear he cared not a jot, not a spigot, about the fate of the tortured young blacksmith.

"You are _low, _Mr. Sparrow," Elizabeth growled. "You're lower than coal mines, and infinitely dirtier. How _dare _you lead us on like that, pretending to help us save Will, only to- to-" Her voice cracked in frustration. "At least _Barbossa_ is _upfront _about being a villain!"

Jack remained cool as a frosted cucumber, completely ignoring her fuming banter. "On the contrary, m'dear, I have been ceaselessly trying to convince you of my ill motives and general villainy, from the moment I rescued you from Port Royal bay. _You _just keep insisting on trying to peg me as a hero. I'm _not_ yer bloody _Will,_ fer crying out loud! I'm a pirate, a _real_ pirate, not one of them fictional, eyepatched, parrot-wearing, treasure-squirreling, golden-hearted nitwits what populate yer bedtime storybooks. A _real _pirate. Sorry if that don't appeal to you, luv."

"You are a pestilence, a blot, a cad, a worm, an underhanded knave, as greedy as a gator and as foul as fish-guts!" Elizabeth yowled, trying to provoke _some_ manner of guilt from the captain. No such luck.

Finally, Jack spoke up again. "Dogear, I were jus' thinkin', bein' as you was stuck guardin these loud and frankly uncharmingly disagreeable prisoners durin' the victory orgy, _you_ didn' even get yer victory drink, _or _get ta see the whelp get shishkebobbed and flayed alive, did ya? Shame. Ya know mate, being as yer luck has been so in the doldrums of late, it pains me ta see that, on top of _awl _that, you hafta do _all_ the work too. Now, if you'd just hand me one of those pistols, I-"

Dogear's left pistol jabbed backwards over his shoulder, pointing at Jack's face.

"-could help," Jack finished flatly.

"Nuh-uh-ah, Barbossa said no weapons fer you, Jack," Dogear retorted through his thick teeth. "Not till ya've proved yer with us."

"Fair's fair," Jack replied meekly.

By this point, they'd reached the brig again, and Dogear's left gun was swiveled back towards Sparrow's crew.

Elizabeth could feel the beads on Jack's forked beard dangle tappingly on her shoulder as he leaned his head forward, and whispered by her ear, "By way of a friendly hint, luv, ya _were _safer in yer cage."

"Oh, and what do _you _care what becomes of quote unquote: 'two scraps of flotsam, or a poxy, ship-arsonist strumpet'?" she whispered back acidly.

"Right you are, Missy," said Jack. He let go of one of Elizabeth's arms just long enough to yank open the cell door.

Elizabeth took full advantage of this 'opportune moment', to punch Jack in the ear with her free fist.

Looking momentarily like he was going to hit her back, but then dropping his curled fist; Jack shoved her into the cell roughly, and then waved the rest of the prisoners back into their prison.

"But- thar is a plan, right, Jack?" Gibbs whispered nervously, as he passed.

Sparrow winked, which of course, explained nothing. But Gibbs smiled conspiratorially anyway.

_Bloody pirate likely just got something in his eye, _Elizabeth guessed irritably.

Anamaria was the last into the cell- but she stopped dead in the doorway, and turned around, reaching her lithely muscled arms out to grip either side of the doorway, and staring Jack down haughtily.

Jack's small mouth scrunched up to the side of his face. Then, assuming a fake winning smile, he crooned, "Anamaria, deary, you may'vn't noticed, but you are in the way, _move."_

She glowered smolderingly.

"Please move?"

"Turnin' on yer own crew now, eh?" Anamaria snapped tartly. "Dat's low even for you, Sparrow."

"Oh, just _'Sparrow'_ now, is it?" Gripping his helmswoman's dark wrists, Sparrow started struggling to shove her into the cell. "Not 'Captain'? Not even 'Jack'? I see we're not on first-name basis anymore. Well, that's not very fair is it? Because that'd mean we're on _last_-name-basis, an' I don't even _know_ yer last name."

"You neva' asked."

"I'm asking."

"Here's a hint, it ain't _Sparrow,_ an' it's neva' _gonna_ be, so _your _hands got no right bein' on _my_ skin, ya daft-skulled, boat-thievin', turncoat lout!" Anamaria retorted, as her molten molasses eyes widened viciously.

Sparrow shoved her in the rest of the way, slammed the door shut quickly, wrapped the heavy chain through the door and bars above the twisted metal of the blasted lock, and stuck a heavy key from his rattling keyring into the chain's padlock. "As ya please, Miss Smith," he replied calmly.

"An it ain't _Smif_ eitha!"

"Would ya prefer 'Smithy'?"

"Shuddup!"

"Guess not." Reflectively, Jack added, "_Now_ I know why I can never remember me crew's names..." With a rusty creak of the key in the lock, he trapped the prisoners once more.

"Captain Jack, you are behaving downright despicably," Lucy scolded.

Of all the insults flying through Elizabeth's mind, there was one she kept coming back to. "Bloody _pirate."_

"Oh, and here I thought you fancied me," Jack replied in a mock-hurt tone, as he tied the keys to a fraying flap of his rosy-striped sash.

"_Fancied_ you?" Elizabeth repeated incredulously. "I bloody _loathe _you! I loathe you like I've never loathed anything before- I loathe you worse than tarantulas, worse than pythons, worse than rum, worse than rainstorms, worse than liverwurst, worse than graveyards, worse than scurvy, worse than dentists, worse th-"

"Wreally?" Jack interrupted. "Worse than dentists? Oh, now you've cut me to the wick."

"To the _quick,_ not the _wick_, you grammatically deprived halfwit!"

Dogear snorted sarcastically, and said, "A real ladies man, aintcha, Jack?"

"Yes, actually," Sparrow replied defensively. "When there are actual _ladies_ around."

Before Elizabeth could say the witty comeback on the tip of her tongue, the brig steps started creaking loudly, and Barbossa's boatswain stepped down into sight, with a limp body hoisted over his shoulder.

Elizabeth practically smashed herself against the bars as she jolted forwards. She couldn't see the face in the dim light of the single lantern in the brig, and the penny-sized chinks of light peeping in through the hull, but she could tell whose bloody curls the face was hiding under. _"Will!" _she exclaimed loudly. "Oh, William!" He was shirtless under the yards of bandages he was trussed in, with the remains of his torn shirt dangling from his belt, dripping dark with blood.

Carelessly, Bos'un slung Will down into the cell across from them, face-first into the bilge water.

"What in _blinkin' _dangnation d'ya think yer _doin'?" _Jack growled to the glistening black mountain of a pirate, "that bilge will mortify his wounds, and make 'em gangrenous, an' he'll die of infection quicker than a cat's blink!"

"If he doesn't _drown_ first," Elizabeth growled sardonically, "Not that _you'd_ care, pirate."

Bos'un tried to slam the door shut, but Will's shoulder was in the way, so the brute kicked Will's ragdoll body over into the cell with a low chuckle. But at least Will's face wasn't underwater anymore.

"That is what is called gratuitous violence," Jack informed Bos'un blandly. "I'm failing to see the entertainment value."

"Yo, Dogear!" Bos'un barked gruffly. "Yer a lousy guard, and anyhow, Barbossa, he want to see you in his cabin, pronto."

Dogear frowned irritably, and stalked off up-decks with heavy steps, leaving Jack stuck with Bos'un as a guarding partner.

"Oh, what did you _do_ to him, Jack?" Elizabeth gasped hoarsely, feeling her voice fail her as she peered through the squared bars, trying to get a good look at Will's slim, battered form in the opposite cell.

"Bloody saved 'is _life,_ thats all," Sparrow retorted, also staring at Will.

"Only so you can kill him later, after using him as bait to snare and kill his father. We heard you, you backstabbing wretch!" Elizabeth retorted as sharply as a razor.

Jack glanced over his shoulder at her, and shrugged. "Yep, bout the way of it, m'deary. Guess ya've finally got me truly pegged."

Bos'un's large shadow loomed up behind Jack, and with a panther-like swipe, the scarred African tore the keyring out of Jack's hands, then stalked back to Will's cell.

Cautiously stepping out of his cuffed boots, Jack followed Bos'un like a runty second shadow, making surprisingly little noise, even with all the splashy bilge-water underfoot.

Elizabeth's brown eyes narrowed quizzically, as she wondered what the Captain was up to now.

The answer came while Bos'un was fingering though the rusty keys, looking for the right one to lock Will in; and while Jack was one step behind Bos'un's muscular back.

Without warning, Jack's fist flew toward the back of Bos'un's neck with frightening swiftness, and instantly, the African warrior sank to his knees with a bestial groan. "Game's up," Jack snarled softly, as Bos'un toppled onto his side. Elizabeth_ had_ thought Jack had just punched the bloke, until she saw a large, flashy shard of green glass wedged in Bos'un's bloody neck.

With jerky movements, Jack stole the cutlass and the keys from the yellow-dotted sash tied around the waist of Bos'un's corpse. "Backstabbing has its uses, luv," he said, giving Elizabeth a grin as he strode back to her cell, giving the keys yet another playful spin on his forefinger. But Elizabeth could see that his dirty, blood-streaked hands were shaking.

"Oh Captain, I _knew _it, I _knew_ you were just fooling!" Lucy exclaimed delightedly.

Smiling back, Jack said, "Vote of confidence much appreciated-"

"So you _are_ going to unlock us now?" Grassroot cut in acidly.

"Right?" Marty chimed in.

"Yep." Jack grabbed the keyring dangling from his sash, fingered through the keys in deep concentration, then stuck the right one in the keyhole of the padlock chained around the cell bars. "Plan is, we wait till the _opportune_ moment, namely, when Barbossa's bleedin' drunk mutineers- them still sober enough ta stand- are boarding that other ship yonder, then we cut grapples, strand said mutineers on other ship, kill leftover drunks and gunners on the _Pearl- Pearl_'s free; we sail outta here!"

"That sounds _somewhat _poorly thought-through," Lucy commented dubiously. "Especially considering we've practically no weapons, and are insanely outnumbered."

"And _insane,_" Elizabeth muttered. Getting in Jack's face as he turned the key, Elizabeth snapped, "So, you _think_ we're just going to up and amiably help you after you were going to use Will as bait?"

"Right, Will." Point-blank ignoring Elizabeth, Jack let the barred door swing open, let the chain clank to the floorboards, strode to Will's cage, and hurriedly unlocked it too.

Elizabeth splashed over as fast as her bare feet could go through the mucky bilge, and nearly tripped over Bos'un's hulking corpse, as she shoved herself through Will's cell door before Jack could. Then her strength failed her, and she fell to her knees by Will's side, overcome by the sight of him. Shakily slipping her hands under his neck, she gently lifted his head out of the awful water. She didn't want to look, but she couldn't stop skin was pale beneath his tan, like wax, white wax, stained purple and red. There were bruises and nicks galore, dreadful gashes on his neck, a burnt eyebrow, small slits in his ears. He had as many wrappings as a leper, and looked like he'd been hacked to pieces and badly sewn back together, with a colorful, dingy rainbow of yarns. Never in her worst fears had she imagined he'd be_ this_ bad off.

The cell door creaked back shut with the sway of the ship, as Jack paced up behind her. He pointed out a ghoulish zig-zag cut on Will's abdomen, from armpit to waist. "That one there were Bos'un's," Jack said, as though still trying to justify the murder of the mutineer to himself.

"Mary, Joseph, and the sweet Christ child..." Mr. Gibbs swore under his breath, from outside the bars. "Is the lad even alive?"

"Oh _gosh,_" Lucy gasped as her small hands sprang to her mouth. "What I wouldn't _give_ for my cordial just now!"

"Will, Will Turner, can you hear me?" Elizabeth breathed rapidly, "Are you all right?" _Oh, stupid question,_ she berated herself. Edgily, she combed her fingers through Will's damp brown ringlets, and bit her lip as she saw dark, oozing blood, loosened by bilge-water, streak down through the spaces between her fingers.

Will blinked vacantly, coming out of a daze. One puppy-brown eye was bloodshot. "Miss Swann?" he murmured.

"That's_ Elizabeth_ to you," she corrected him in a delicately teasingly tone.

Giving a feeble smile, Will started to sit up.

"No, don't move, you might tear something open!" Elizabeth cautioned.

Will's hand fastened around her hand, which was still cradling his head. "Elizabeth," he said worriedly, shocking her by using her first name for the first time, "you're cold..." Glancing down at his mutilated chest, and realizing he had no shirt or coat to offer her, he simply wrapped his yarn-stitched, blood-sticky, blacksmith arms around her sweaty ones, leaning his face over her shoulder as he hugged her close. For an instant, she just breathed in, shivering. _Salty sweat. Strong aroma of rum. Blood has a smell too..._ It was faint, but cloying. Willfelt cadaverous, corpselike to the touch- not that she'd ever touched a corpse. She felt like shoving him away, since he was so bloody and sticky and icky, and she was so stifling and sweat-smeared- but she couldn't.

"No Will, I'm positively feverish hot," she protested finally, reluctantly shrugging her shoulders out of his arms. Something felt wrong about his left one. She wondered if it were dislocated. "Now lay back down, you goose!" she added. She shot Jack a scathing glance. "Wher_ever_ did you learn to stitch, Sparrow?"

"Same place you learned all about the Pirate Code. Sewing bees," the captain replied, crossing his arms and drumming his fingers on his elbow impatiently.

Will raised one half-burnt eyebrow skeptically, as he craned his neck up to peer at Jack. "Oh, you," he said flatly, feeble smile vanishing. "So now it's you're saving us, is it? Can't make up your mind?"

Instead of answering, Jack grabbed Will's arm.

"Get off me!" Will snarled, yanking away.

Snatching the blacksmith under both armpits, Jack hefted him to his feet, up out of the bilgewater.

"What are you _doing- _how _dare_ you-" Elizabeth protested, "-you can't just _hoist_ up an injured man like that, have you _no _medical sense whatsoever? He needs a stretcher, a cot!"

Will struggled to pry himself free, but Jack's arms just tightened above Will's ribs, as Jack kicked the cell door back open.

"You're _hurting_ him!" Elizabeth yelped, smacking the side of her fist against Jack's shoulder.

Apart from a slight twitch of his cheek, Jack ignored her.

"_Captain!" _Lucy snapped.

"Gotta get you outta here, mate," the pirate grunted as he shoved Will through the door, "it's unhealthsome, yer wounds swimmin' in all this bilge-water. I mean, d'ya even _know_ what's in the recipe Mr. Wooden-eye uses ta swab this deck? Well, it's been ten years, but I do rather think I recall the ingredients were: equal parts grog, tar, and troll saliva."

"Really, troll saliva?" asked Grassroot.

As Elizabeth nailed Jack's arm, Will shoved him away, stumbled down, then caught onto the outer cell bars, using them to pull himself back upright.

Elizabeth tried to slip in next to the battered smith, to help support him, but he shoved her away roughly.

Will blinked at her, muddled, like he had wool in his brain and was staring through smoked glass. But realizing it was her and not Jack, he said in a milder mutter, "Let me alone, I- I'm fine."

"Ooh, you've said a lotta stupid things durin' our brief acquaintanceship, Wiwliam," Jack scoffed, "but I must say_ that _takes the cake."

"Who took the cake?" a gruff voice asked sharply.

Everyone's heads turned towards Grapple in disbelief. The burly mutineer was swaying in place behind them, grappling hook in hand.

"Wha's _he_ doin' here?" Marty exclaimed.

Before anyone could answer, Grapple collapsed like a pile of spilled bricks.

Standing behind him was Anamaria, holding the chain from the cell, with the heavy padlock dangling at the end._ "See_ Sparrow? _Dat's _how ye do it proper. I _told _ya you only dazed him," the islander piratess informed Jack dryly.

Jack glanced down, disturbed, at the floored, smacked, unconscious man, as Anamaria stole Grapple's grappling hook. "I _knew_ there was a reason you scared me, Miss Smif," Jack said, "I jus' hadn't figured it out yet."

"I _ain't _Miss Smith!" Anamaria yapped, holding the grappling hook towards Jack threateningly.

"Beg pardon."

Suddenly, perhaps inspired by Ana's weapon-theft, Will nabbed Jack's cutlass, and brought it sharply up to Jack's neck, pinning the beads on his forked beard under his chin.

"To clarify," Jack said cautiously, "what Barbossa did to you up there was _not_ my fault." Jack's eyes shifted to Will's stitched-up chest, as he added, "And it's _not_ my fault all I had to work with was a sail-kit needle and yarn."

The young blacksmith scowled back steadily. "Barbossa was testing you." In a harsher tremor, Will added, "I think you passed."

"I _think _I saved your life."

"Who's s-side are you on, Jack?" Will demanded dizzily.

"That's besides the point."

"Just like your neck."

With a helpless shrug, Jack said, "Your side, then."

"Only bec-" Will's eyelids fluttered, as he struggled to finish his sentence. "-because- because of the sword?"

"Consider Wiwl, what side are _you_ on?" Jack inquired mysteriously. "Why look, yer on _this _side of the cage, yer stitched up, Bos'un's dead- I'm offerin' you my help, plain as that. Take what ya can, Will, pirate motto. Count yerself _lucky_ I'm on yer side."

"For the moment," Will guessed sourly, pulling the cutlass harshly away from Jack's neck.

"You're catchin' on." After an awkward pause, Jack added quizzically, "How are you even bloody _standing?"_

Will considered this, lost his balance, stuck the cutlass-point downwards, and somehow managed to not fall again. "I've not the slightest clue," he sighed, leaning on the hilt like a crutch.

"Aye boy," Gibbs added, "shouldn't ye be on the brink of death and caterwauling in agony right now?"

"Should I?" Will stated. "Huh. I'm guessing my torturers must have cut through some major nerves or such, because I feel numb all over. In fact," he added brightly, "I can't feel a thing!"

"And that's _good?" _Grassroot exclaimed.

Will peered down at his bandaged chest. "Yes, considering."

"Maybe I'm just a fantastic surgeon," Jack deduced optimistically, trying vaguely to win back favor amongst his slapdash crew.

"Or maybe Barbossa's just a pathetic torturer," Will suggested.

Jack's eyebrows rose beneath his red bandanna as he eyed Will's wounds. "Nah, I'm a dang_ fantastic _surgeon."

Will randomly collapsed, like a puppet with cut strings, and the sword spun out of his hand, landing in the bilge with a splash.

"We are all _so_ convinced," Elizabeth scoffed, as she crouched down to help Will again.

The sound of cannonfire shook through the woodwork, and everyone looked up.

"We should go," Jack stated, stooping down to pick up Will's- his- Bos'un's?- sword. "Now. Weapons, we must have weapons. Collect lanterns, mop, rope, chains, that footstool, anything you can find!"

As the rest of Jack's crew scattered to obey, Anamaria handed Gibbs Grapple's hook, and slung the chained padlock over her shoulder. It was evidently _her_ weapon of choice.

"Elizabeth," Will murmured, and she noticed that he was staring at her feet. "Your ankles are beautiful." Will climbed himself upright on the bars beside him, let go, and dizzily gripped her shoulders for support as she stood up too. "Your shoulders are beautiful," he whispered. "Your hair-" He dallied with a strand of it between his fingers, and Elizabeth gulped as she saw the raw red patches of three missing fingernails. "-your hair is beautiful," Will went on, tucking a tuft of it behind her ear. "Your ears are beautiful... Elizabeth, have I ever told you how achingly, enchantingly, beauteous you are?"

"She didn't say Mr. Turner was her _sweetheart,_" Grassroot stated squeamishly, obviously uncomfortable with the sappy display of affection.

"You didn't _guess?"_ Lucy asked the faun humorously, a smile playing across her dewdrop lips.

Elizabeth was relishing this, even though Will's caresses were awkward, and he felt like a zombie. Still, she knew it wasn't fair. _Jack's __obviously__ given Will rum to kill the pain, and Will's __obviously__ slightly tipsy, and probably delusional too, _she thought._ The Will I know is __never__ this forward and chatty._ "That's the rum talking," she sighed, tenderly tugging his hand away from her face.

"Isn't she?" Will asked the mute Mr. Cotton. "Isn't- isn't she enchanting?"

"Yes, yes," Jack hissed, as he paced to the staircase, "I just may marry the goddess meself, now _come on!_"

"You can't wed her! I won't let you!" Will's angry face fell abruptly. "Oh, unless Jack is who you truly want, Elizabeth..."

"_Quite _the contrary," Elizabeth assured him fervently.

"Nah, she and Grapple there yonder are paramours now," Jack joked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to point at the unconscious man.

"Oh," said Will, looking crushed.

"Of _course_ I don't love _Grapple!" _Elizabeth gasped irritably. "How could I love a lout like _Grapple_ when_you_exist? I _think_ I have been somewhat _brazenly_ forthright concerning my feelings for you," Elizabeth added, her pouty mouth quirking into a nettled smirk. "_Perhaps_ if I'd received but a _sliver_ of encouragement in return..."

"What?" Will replied blankly, cocking his head to the side.

"Wiwliam," Jack sighed, pausing on the bottom step and leaning against the stair banister as he waited for his crew to finish collecting makeshift weapons, "take a hint, the lady wants _you_ ta lead."

"But..." Will said as his injured eyes fogged over again, "-_you're_ the captain. _You _shouldlead. Y_ou _have 'the plan'..." Will clutched his head helplessly, obviously unable to cope with his tangled thought processes.

Elizabeth had to catch him before he fell over again, and cringed. Every time she touched him, she felt like a mortician inspecting a murder victim.

"Don't ask me to plan, you- you can't!" Will moaned. "I'm sorry, I won't be captain. You'll have to settle with Jack. Sorry." He blinked his good eye open. "Hey," he stated, peering suspiciously at the cutlass-hilt in Jack's hand, "is that _my_ sword?"

"No," said Jack.

"Oh," said Will.

There was a conspiring atmosphere in the brig as the crew finally flocked together at the foot of the stairs with their 'weapons'.

"Wait," Lucy said suddenly, halting everyone in their steps, "this _might_ be more danger than it's worth. Fighting Barbossa's crew and trying to take command of the _Pearl,_ I mean. We _might _want to choose our battles, don't you think? I mean, after Captain Barbossa fights this other ship, he'll return to that little island with the passage between worlds, right? Well, when he goes through the cave passage- if it works- we could convince him to take us along too, as guides. Maybe luring Barbossa onto our turf is a good idea after all... I mean, we know the ways of Narnia... and we have friends there," Lucy added, giving Grassoot a sly, conspiratorial, secret tree-club smile. "We'd have the advantage."

"I've a better idea," Jack retorted.

"What?" Marty asked.

"We wing it," the captain hissed, breaking into a hasty, staggering run up the steps. "Follow me, hurry-scurry!"

"Oh, he expects you to _run_ now, does he- Will!" Elizabeth gasped, as the blacksmith's hobbling steps shifted into an awkwardly swift stride. She hurried after him, hovering close by his side in case he fell again. "You _do_ realize you're practically the walking dead, don't you?"

"I was trying to run," Will muttered.

After a few _mostly_ quiet moments of sneaking up the stairs, Will caught Elizabeth by the arm, pulling her closer. "Elizabeth," he murmured in a rum-heavy breath, "if I die, I just- I just want to tell you-"

"Yes?" she replied, intrigued.

"-Could you look after Dusty?"

"What?"

"Talk about wasted opportunities!" Jack scoffed from two feet in front of and above them, eavesdropping, as usual.

"Dusty?" Elizabeth repeated. "Your mule?"

Will nodded, oblivious to the gashes on his throat. "I'm worried Mr. Brown will forget- to feed him, and the poor creature shall perish in his harness, and- and- well- there goes the whole bellows machinations I spent so long rigging up, and nothing shall ever get done in the smithy- not that it shall if I'm dead anyways-"

"Will?" Elizabeth whispered back swiftly.

"Hmm?" he answered her, as if they hadn't just been talking.

"Yes. Dusty shall be well looked-after."

"Oh, thank you! That's very kind." Will smiled in relief, then frowned, and said, "Oh, and... Elizabeth?"

"Yes?" Elizabeth replied again, all ears and huge bug eyes.

"There's this- this mother cat who comes around my shop, and she has this litter of kittens, of... of- yes, kittens- and if someone doesn't feed her- for that pussy is a pathetic huntress- she and her kittens shall surely starve. Die. Dead. Little cat skeletons, molding in the alleyway. So, I don't suppose _you_ could..."

"Yes Will, I shall- no I bloody well shall_ not!" _Elizabeth interrupted herself. "Because _you _are going to feed those felines, _you _are going to feed that mule, you are going to_ live!_ And there's an end of it! So there shall be no more selfish talk of dying Will, not another word, do you hear?"

Glancing behind him to Queen Lucy, Will said hopefully, "You look like a nice girl, would you feed my cat and her kittens?"

"Oh, sure," Lucy chirped, "I'd love to-"

"No she won't!" Elizabeth interrupted, louder than she'd meant to.

"Aye Will," Jack added, "she's practically a kitten herself, now _shut up! _Come now, smartly now, don't lets lollygag and putter..." the captain muttered softly, hurrying his sneaky little band along unmercifully.

"And Elizabeth, there's one more thing..." Will added uncertainly.

"Yes?" fully expecting him to ask her to feed the swallows in his chimney.

"I was just wondering if- Aah!" Will yelped, jumping two inches in shock.

Jerking her head around, Elizabeth took a calming breath. It was just a port window. Will had just seen his reflection. And yes, it_ was_ pretty scary.

Jack halted dead on the stairs this time, and spun around, glaring. "Shut him up, would you, sugar?" he snapped at Elizabeth. "Kiss him or somethin'," he added irritably, continuing on his way.

"Well," Will said dutifully, while shrugging, "you shouldn't shirk the captain's orders."

Elizabeth kissed Will lightly on the cheek, then pulled away, wiping Will's blood off her lips with the back of her palm.

"You're _so_ cold..." he sighed despairingly. "And yet, not quite cold. You're sort of... nothing. You're just so-"

"Shush..." she whispered desperately, pressing two fingers over Will's thin lips. Somehow, it was a little disheartening having one's secret love describe one as 'cold' and 'sort of nothing'.

"Ya're blocking the stairs!" growled one of Jack's men, a skinny bloke in an orange vest.

Will and Elizabeth pulled apart, and continued up the steps.

"We should raid da armory," Anamaria gasped roughly, as the company paused for breath behind the foremast by the stair landing.

"No, guarded," Jack muttered stiffly, as he slid his neck around a doorway, peeking into the main gundeck.

Holding up her padlock and chain, Ana hissed, _"Dese _won' last long against pistols, Cap'n!"

But Jack was on the move again, clomping quietly up the bending stairs again, to the busy maindeck. He paused below the criss-crossed light of the top hatch for a moment, lifting it with a whispery creak. "Miss Smif?" he hissed finally. "Miss Smif! …. Anamaria?"

"Aye?"

"Go, head yer armory raid."

"But you said it were too well-guarded!" Anamaria argued.

"That's afore I saw how crowded it were up_ top._ Can't be anyone much left below. Just avoid the gunners, and you'll be good. Shouldn't be too many of them, Barbossa doesn' want ta blast his new prize flagship ta smivereens, now does'ee? Go, shoo. No, not you, Wiwliam," Jack added swiftly, as Will started stepping down the stairs with the rest of them.

"_Why _not Will?" Elizabeth hissed, joining Jack and Will up by the cracked-open hatch.

"Shh!" the pirate ordered. "_You _may leave, doll," he added congenially. "Run along, run along."

"I think not," Elizabeth bit back.

Glaring down over her shoulder, Jack snapped, "Kitten, Creature, what are _you _two still doin' here?"

"I'm sticking with Miss Elizabeth," Lucy retorted defiantly, tightly gripping the lantern she'd chosen as a weapon.

"And I'm sticking with my queen," Grassroot added nobly, holding his mop like a sword.

"And I'm sticking with Will," Elizabeth added for good measure.

"Fine, then, be paste if you must," said Jack flippantly. "Just stick ta my _orders _while yer at it." His dark eyes went back to the cracked-open hatch. "Barbossa's dogs 're grappling the other ship..." he murmured. "...They're swinging over... huh, some of 'em are jus' jumpin' the rail, that's odd- haven't they ever heard of sharks?"

"Can we sally forth yet?" Grassroot asked impatiently, twirling his mop.

"Sally who?" asked Jack distractedly. "Do I know her?"

"Is it all clear up there?" Lucy rephrased.

"No."

Elizabeth glanced nervously down the stairwell, expecting Barbossa's remaining men to come rhinocerosing up at any instant. "Now?" she asked.

"No!" Jack repeated in a harsh whisper. "...Now!" Shoving open the hatch, he clambered up nimbly, with the rest of them close behind.

As she got above-decks, Elizabeth saw that Jack had paused.

"Ash," Jack stated hollowly, looking down, and running his bare toes through the powdery grey layer underfoot. The deck was spotted with even more scorch-marks than Elizabeth's night-shift. "Bloody _ash_... Ya know Lizbef, I still can't fathom that you _burnt _up me Pearl, for a one-time chance at being spotted!"

"Well it _worked,_ didn't it?" Elizabeth retorted triumphantly, as she spotted a familiar H.M.S. Ship-of-the-line. "It's the _Dauntless_!" she gasped in delight, racing to the_ Pearl's_ rail, and gawking over it perhaps a bit too far in her excitement. "Will, _look,_ it's the _Dauntless_!"

Will joined her by the balustrade, stared out at the grand blue-gold ship for a moment, then sank his elbows onto the rail glumly. "Ah," he muttered bitterly, "so Norrington's finally here to heroically save you. Huzzah."

Abruptly, a cutlass hacked down into the rail right next to Elizabeth, severing one of the grappling hook ropes pinning the _Pearl_ to the _Dauntless_.

"That's a great way to dent the blade," Will informed Jack dryly, not so much as flinching.

"What'd I even bring ya along fer?" Jack growled back, as he swung the cutlass over his head, and whacked it down on the next grappling rope.

"I don't know," Will retorted, "what _did_ you bring me along for? I thought the armory raid sounded far more fun."

"Weren't you payin' attention to the _plan?" _Jack snapped.

"Of _course_ he wasn't, he was_ unconscious!"_ Elizabeth retorted. _"And_ you mumble."

"_Cut_ the bloody grapples!" Jack yowled.

"_You've_ got only sword!" Grassroot pointed out, obviously jealous of that fact.

"Oh. Right." Jack sheepishly and reluctantly tossed Elizabeth the blade. Then, as the _Pearl_ started to swing away, and the _Pearl's_ taffrail began splintering on the _Dauntless_'s bowsprit, Jack dashed to the helm to save his precious ship from damage.

Handing the cutlass to Will, Elizabeth sprinted after Jack. Will wandered after her like a lost puppy, with Grassroot and Lucy in close pursuit.

"_Wait!"_ Elizabeth hissed out to Jack, remembering just in time not to shout. "You cannot simply strand all those mutineers on the _Dauntless_!"

"Better there than the _Pearl_!" Jack snarled back, as he struggled to swing the helm wheel to starboard.

"We're going back to help," Will argued, dizzily lunging at the wheel, and tugging it to port.

"Not a chance," Jack retorted, tugging the wheel back to starboard. "And what are you even doing? _Yer _the one tugging the _Pearl_ away from the _Dauntless_, _I'm_ trying to keep 'er steady so's she don't splinter while she's still grappled!"

"But the _Dauntless_ is _that_ way," Will pointed out, squinting and pointing through the fog. "Shouldn't turning the wheel _toward_ the _Dauntless_ turn the_ Pearl_ toward the _Dauntless_?"

"Sometimes I ferget what a landlubber ya are, whelp," Jack sighed. "Jus' go cut the last grapples!"

"But what if the navy can't fend the pirates off?" Elizabeth persisted.

"Then I'll shed a few crocodile tears," Jack replied coolly.

"Jack!" Elizabeth snapped.

"Don't you even _care?_" Lucy wondered in amazement.

There was a hypnotizing, deadly focused look in Jack's black-framed eyes. "I've got too many gibbeted friends being picked to ribbons by crows, by order of the king and action of the illustrious Commodore, to care."

"Again with the _ribbons_," Grassroot muttered irritably, "ribbons _aren't _scary!"

"Jack-" Elizabeth began again.

"Frankly luv, I don't give a fig what befalls His Majesty's finest," Jack interrupted saucily.

"That's awfully cold of ya, mate," crooned a papery, crawling voice.

_No, not now. Not Barbossa, _Elizabeth thought doomily.

All eyes swung to face the villainous mutineer captain, and his impressive hat. Turning to consult the monkey on his shoulder, Barbossa asked, "So Jack, shall we shoot the nasty traitor?"

The capuchin shrieked in delight at being spoken to.

"Hector!" Jack stammered.

The six mutineers following Barbossa slunk in from all sides, cornering Jack and his four followers at the helm, as Barbossa looked on, silently gloating.

Will stepped in front of Elizabeth, Grassroot, and Lucy protectively, sword at the ready, and tattered bandages and yarns flickering in the wind. Elizabeth had never seen him so gallant. "Surrender!" the blacksmith crowed valiantly, struggling to stay upright, and blinking a lot, obviously having difficulty focusing. "Surrender, and we may- forget to kill you- or not kill you- or forgetting- sharks perhaps- or _yes_, that's what we'll do. So throw down your weapons!"

"Tame yer loony lion-hearted luver lad, would ya?" Jack whispered to Elizabeth.

"Grapple's _here?"_ Will asked, with just the slightest bit of jealousy.

Ignoring Will's alcohol-induced antics, Jack whispered,_ "I'll _deal with Barbossa."

"I must say, Jack," Barbossa drawled casually, "I knew'd you was foolin' from the start, joinin' me, but I had thought ye'd wait a _bit_ longer afore throwin' yer charade to the wind."

"Um- prisoner escape!" Jack exclaimed suddenly, his whole face shifting to false innocence, as he tactfully switched sides again. "Bos'un was stupid, he were taunting them wiv the keys, and they nabbed them, an the lot of 'em escaped clean an' _murdered _Bos'un! I_ tried_ ta stop 'em, honest, but they viciously overpowered me-"

"Oh, I imagine_ that_ were hard," Barbossa scoffed.

"-And none of 'em know how to sail a ship," Jack added weakly, glancing pointedly at Will, "so they're forcing me to navigate!"

To his crew, Barbossa ordered, "Shoot the lot of em- exceptin' the lasses and the faun."

"Where in Tartarus is Anamaria?" Jack muttered under his breath, through gritted, gold-capped teeth. "Wait- wait!" he yapped, as a blunderbuss barrel was aimed in his face, "Hector, mate, _I'm_ still on yer side, and- _they_- they uh..." Giving his small band a desperate 'just-play-along' look, Jack finished brightly, "-they have had a change of heart and want ta join your crew, don't ye?"

"We do?" asked Will blankly.

"No," Lucy replied stiffly.

"_Do_ they now," Barbossa drawled reflectively.

"No!" Elizabeth repeated, more fiercely. To Jack, she hissed, "I thought you said you'd deal with Barbossa!"

"I _am_ dealing wiv him," Jack defended.

"No Jack, that's called _double_-dealing," Elizabeth corrected sourly.

Swerving close to her ear, Jack whispered rapidly, "Look missy, might be safest all round were I ta help the Big Bad Sea-wolf take the _Dauntless_, and then he'll make me captain of the _Pearl_, as formerly agreed-"

"And you trust_ Barbossa's_ word?" Lucy whispered crisply.

"I trust his ego, Kitten. Me working for him, title of commodore? He can't resist. When we split crews, I'll pick you four on my crew, I promise. Just say you'll join, please, pretty-please-"

"Only, a gajillion navymen will _die!"_ Elizabeth whispered fiercely.

"Yep, that's a perk too."

Elizabeth smacked Jack in the arm, hard. He was _really_ making her violent.

Jack scowled, rubbed his sore arm, turned back to Barbossa, and said in a louder voice, "C'mon Hector, mate, ignore the Swann wench, she's a fruitcake, but let the others join, give 'em a chance! Every little bitta help could help, could turn the tide of the battle, savvy!"

"Aye Jack," Barbossa agreed, "but the tides could could turn _either_ way."

"We're _not _joining!" Elizabeth exclaimed in exasperation.

"True, true!" Grassroot agreed nastily. "We shall never join pirates!"

Elizabeth wondered if anyone had informed the faun that _Jack _was a pirate.

Suddenly, in a blindingly quick motion, Jack grabbed Will- who was still holding the wheel-spokes- swiped Will's sword, and pressed the blade up to Will's stitched and scraped neck.

"Let him _go!"_ Elizabeth gasped, appalled at what she was seeing.

"Revenge is sweet, ain't it Hector?" Jack crooned darkly, ignoring her. "Sweeter than apples."

"I like apples sour," Barbossa interjected tartly.

"Mate," Jack went on, "how are ya ta have yer aforementioned perfect sour vengeance on Bootstrap Bill if _I _kill his whelp first, savvy?"

Barbossa was listening now, and he wasn't smiling. But his casual face returned swiftly. "Ah, I could always tell ol' Bootstrap his 'best mate' killed his only son," he said flippantly. "That'd be might torturous."

"He'd never believe you," Jack argued hotly. "Bootstrap knows I'd _never_ do such a thing."

Barbossa smirked smugly, having caught Jack in his words.

"Under normal circumstances!" Jack stammered. Resuming his 'evil pirate' voice, he went on, slowly, "Bootstrap sent off his coin. He made your life- _all _your lives- hell-on-earth fer ten years- count em,_ ten_. And you want payback."

In that moment, Elizabeth realized that Jack was also talking about his own feelings towards Barbossa. She also realized one other thing. "Oh, so _that's_ why you wanted Will to come with you," she growled viperously. "He was the last card you could play if everything else went wrong for you!"

"Which it _did_," Jack countered. "Believe you me, I _know_ what sort of luck I have."

"And yer terms?" Barbossa asked humorously.

"Drop yer gun, take a jollyboat, and paddle over ta yer new ship, wiv yer friends," Jack said, nodding sharply towards the _Dauntless_.

"And you and he disappear in me _Pearl,_ and how does _that_ secure me my perfect revenge?" Barbossa replied skeptically.

"It don't," Jack admitted. "But nor does it completely erase the possibility eiver, as my gullying Turner Junior _surely_ would. Sometimes we hafta wait fer revenge, mate. You _need_ this lacerated, delusional, zombie kid, you know that. Ya know I'm right, ya know ya won't catch Bootstrap otherwise, and ya_ know_ you want to."

Barbossa's lips twitched into a sneering smirk. "Yer not gonna kill that boy."

"Watch me," said Jack challengingly.

"Know how I know?" Barbossa went on, stroking his monkey behind a fuzzy ear. "Ya play nice, always did."

"Try me," Jack gritted out daringly.

"Ye've always been a pansy mollycoddle, Jack," scoffed Barbossa, as his monkey hugged its tiny black paws over his old, sandpaper cheeks. "No, not you, Jack" Barbossa assured the monkey. "Yer not a real pirate, Sparrow- never were. Canny as ya are at talkin' the talk, ya've ne'er walked the walk."

"'Never's a _long_ word," Jack pointed out, in a sinister tone that left unmistakable hints of a dark and checkered past hiding behind his jangly, often clownish exterior.

Elizabeth found herself wondering what kind of villainy Jack_ was_ capable of, and what dark paths he'd taken in his pirating life.

"Furthermore," Barbossa continued exasperatedly, "I _saw _yer face back there, in the Great Cabin, when you was seamstressing the lad up. Concern written all over, large print. You were best of mates with his father; now I reckon it's likewise with the son."

"Not- really," Will muttered, scratching at the bandages at his neck, but apart from that, looking remarkably subdued.

"Besides, ya said yerself ya'd _ne'er_ do such a thing," Barbossa pointed out.

"Fine," said Jack carelessly, "_supposing_ I'm such chummy pals wiv Turner here, than perhaps,_ being _a chummy pal, I'd rather 'play nice' and put me 'chum' here out of his misery, than let you torture, humiliate, and kill him in front of his father, savvy?"

"Ah, but thing is, Jack," Barbossa countered smugly, slowly stepping forward, while aiming his long-barreled flintlock at Jack's face, "even if ya_ did_ gully him, ya can't kill..." Shifting the gun suddenly, Barbossa shot Will cleanly through the head. "...what's already _dead._"

Elizabeth's heart skipped a beat as Will collapsed out of Jack's grip, crashing sideways against the wheel, unintentionally swerving the ship. "You're alive!" she gasped.

"Huh," Will said emptily. "Shocker." Rubbing the back of his head experimentally, he added, "Do you suppose the bullet's still in there?"

_Will's CURSED,_ Elizabeth realized numbly. Still, she was wallowing in relief that he wasn't _dead. _"You cursed him!" she accused Barbossa in disbelief.

"He did?" Will asked.

"Aye, I made his limp hand take a coin from the Aztec chest after he'd swooned," Barbossa explained.

"You did?" Will asked.

"Aye," Barbossa repeated, "that were the plan from the start, see. I ne'er intended to let me crew torture ye ta _death_- just ta... 'disable' ya before I cursed ye, so ya'd be stuck indefinitely in a state that weren't such a threat."

"But why would_ he_ consider _you_ a threat?" Grassroot asked Will.

Shrugging, Will answered, "I gave his crew a bit of trouble when they locked me up."

"Oh aye, dat 'e did," said one of the mutineers pointing pistols at Jack and company.

"'Trouble's' an understatement," muttered another one, with a very obvious black eye.

Jack smirked knowingly, which made Elizabeth wonder. "Naw, but- why'd you want to curse the boy in the first place?" Jack asked Barbossa curiously, trying to keep the stunned tone out of his voice. "I mean, I understand why ya'd want ta curse him _now,_ since that's prob'ly the only hope ya've got of keepin' the whelp alive till ya lure Bootstrap- but why'd ya wanna curse him _before?"_

"So he could keep on towing me out of my cell and torturing me whenever the fancy took him, naturally," Will guessed with unusual clarity. Apparently that bullet had sobered Will up a bit. "Really, Jack, I suspect he was mostly just torturing _you_ back up there, having you stitch me up when he was just going to curse me anyways."

"Oh." Glancing at Will's mummy wraps, Sparrow said slowly, "No, no I think he was torturing you too." To Barbossa, he added, "So, is it _just _Turner, or are ya all..."

"Yep," said Pintel, from amidst the crowd of mutineers. "_Cursed_."

"How?" Jack asked in amazement. "How'd ye get 'em all ta take coins again? Baked them into cookies?"

"Persuasion," said Barbossa.

There was a pause. "You shot someone, didn't you?" Jack guessed.

"Best way of throwin' their mortality in their faces. Oh, and _yer_ speech back at the Isla de Muerta about the easiness of dying helped too. So I s'pose I should be thankin' ye, Jack."

The monkey beamed.

"A-huh," Jack replied, mulling this over. "So that'd mean the chest's here, on the_ Pearl_... Thought that not even the devil hisself could get em to go near that chest again, not fer all the treasures in this wowrld and the next."

"Tis amazing what persuasion _and_ quality Barbadian rum can do," Barbossa elucidated.

"Ah, I get it, senses dulled by drink. But I see you're as apple-sober as ever."

"Aye."

"But Bos'un-" Jack said cautiously, "he- he's undead too?"

"Naw, I figgered I'd leave _him _outta the know about the re-cursing. Ne'er liked Bos'un much, always crossin' me, he were. That Africander had half a mind ta replace me as captain, and that's a fact."

"Oh good, so you don't mind I killed him," Jack said cheerily.

Abruptly, Will swung his whole weight, (such as it was) on the wheel, making it rotate sharply, which swung the jib-boom spar around rapidly. In a split-second, Will grabbed onto it, and grabbed Elizabeth's hand with his other hand. It felt like he was wrenching her fingers off, and her bare heels scraped roughly against the moldy, splintery deck as Will pulled her up with him atop the swinging jib-boom, which knocked three of the pirates surrounding Jack, Lucy, and Grassroot over the nearby rail, into the water.

"_Just _because you've learned you're immortal does_ not_ give you license to be utterly reckless, Will!" Elizabeth yelped breathlessly, as she scrabbled to get her barefooted balance atop the slippery wooden spar.

"I learned that trick from Jack," Will replied with a demented grin.

Then he was pulling her up into the rigging- from the shaky jib-boom, up the mizzen ratlines, to the crossjack, past the gaff, all the way to the mizzen topgallant yard. The blacksmith was as agile as a monkey, despite his injuries. Elizabeth did _so_ hope he wouldn't randomly lose his balance while they were way up here. At least they both had the advantage of being barefoot- shoes were definitely far too slippery on ropes.

"We'll come back for the others," Will assured Elizabeth intensely as he grabbed a loose rope, and tugged it to make sure it _was _loose.

"Will- _aaah!"_ Elizabeth forget what she was about to say as Will clutched his dislocated arm around her waist, and swung them both on the rope, towards the _Dauntless_. She swiftly grabbed onto the rope too, so that Will wouldn't be stuck supporting both of their weights. He curled around her protectively, and she shrank into him, closing her eyes and clutching onto his bare, thin, tattered chest, feeling the steel-hard upper-body blacksmith muscles beneath his cold, clammy skin. She was torn between her natural response of clinging tight, and her fear of harming Will if she did- even if he_ was_ undead, it was hard to ignore his ghastly injuries.

He fell off the rope as soon as they passed the _Dauntless_' rail, tumbling down beside her. Then he stood up dizzily, swaying like seaweed, gave the rope a tug, and prepared to swing back over-

"Wait!" Elizabeth gasped shrilly. "Are you daft?"

"We both are, remember?" Will replied with a daft smirk.

Elizabeth recalled that 'daft' was what Anamaria had called them both back on the _Interceptor_. _Shall the Dauntless meet the same fiery fate as it's sister ship? s_he wondered with a pang, until she remembered that Barbossa wanted to take it as his new flagship.

Will was absently prodding his fingers against the back of his bloody-curled head again. "If the bullet_ is_ still in there, do you reckon I'll get lead poisoning?" he wondered curiously.

"_I _can go back, _I _can save the others, _you _stay here," Elizabeth ordered Will rapidly.

"Where it's 'safe'?" Will countered ironically, waving towards the foggy deck of marines, pirates, and scrappy fighting. "Look. Look around. Look who's winning. I _have_ to go back, without my blood the curse will never be lifted, and you and every decent person present are basically scuttled."

Scowling, Elizabeth snatched Will's getaway rope, and snapped severely, "You'll need all the other pirates' blood too, Will!"

"...Which is why I need to get the sword back from Jack," Will reasoned seriously.

Elizabeth's scowl deepened. "You shan't play the self-sacrificing hero again, Will Turner, not while I'm here!"

"My thoughts exactly-"

Suddenly, Will kissed her distractingly, full on the mouth, driving all sensible thoughts out of her head. As her panting lips pressed against his icy ones, she couldn't suppress a shudder. _I'm kissing a living corpse,_ she thought, as the image of wine spilling through moonlit ribs filled her mind.

"Goodbye, Elizabeth," Will gasped finally, releasing the kiss. Shoving her sharply away, he swung off to the _Pearl _without her.

"Will Turner!" Elizabeth called out. "Oh, no you _don't._.." she muttered softly, pacing down the _Dauntless_' smoothly sanded deck, avoiding the cat-fighting all around her, and trying to find a stray rope to swing back to the _Pearl_ with. Annoyingly, she couldn't- the _Dauntless_ was so much tidier than the _Pearl_, and every rope was proudly tied in its proper place. So Elizabeth started heading towards the fore-deck, towards the few remaining grappling hooks hooking the two ships' rails together, thinking to climb back to the _Pearl_ on those ropes.

She was nearly there, when she got grabbed by the wrist and yanked behind a cannon by a wild-eyed, snub-nosed blond.

"Shush!" he hissed, tugging her closer to his lips, so he could whisper more conveniently. "I saw it all," he rattled, gripping the little copper spyglass dangling from his neck by a chain.

"Let go!" Elizabeth commanded him.

"Shush or I'll gag you!" the young man threatened snidely. "I saw it_ all_," he repeated rapidly. "Even through this murtherous fug and smog- I saw how, while putting on a showy distraction up front- cussing loudly, swinging cutlasses, etcetera- the pirates loaded their cannons with powder but no balls, to create a smoke-screen- from which I conclude they likely wish to commandeer the _Dauntless_ in one piece- and as the smoke billowed and the gunners tried to aim our cannons back, the pirates crept up over the rails on the other side of the deck- crept up from behind, crawling up, and coming through gunports, sopping wet but silent, and slit the throats of our gunners. _Gullied_ the lot! Oh yes, and one villain went for my neck too- snuck up to the crow's nest, tried to keep me from sounding the alarm- but thank the powers, _this_ saved me." The breathless sailor pried apart the tattered folds of the black cravat at his neck, to reveal a silver brooch engraved with the initials _M. T.,_ with a deep gash through the middle. He tapped it lightly. "I was- I was too late- I sounded the alarm, but I was too _late_. All the gunners- I climbed down here to man Thaddeus' cannon after he fell," the blond murmured, with a crisp hand-wave.

Elizabeth followed the wave with her eyes, and noticed for the first time, only two feet away from her knees, a crumpled body- a silvery, frizzy-haired, dead blighter- a wrinkled, small, elderly, poor thing. Now that Will was not present to distract her full attention, Elizabeth also noticed her once-white shift was now freckled and daubed with Will's blood. She pulled the remaining ends of the cut front ties up, and tied the much-too-short strings tightly, wishing she were more decent, at least in front of this snide blond stranger with his intense eyes.

"But it was _no_ use," the blond went on angrily, still talking fast- too fast. It was hard for Elizabeth to pay attention. "They _spiked _the cannons- the fuses are jammed! Ruddy thing is, those buccaneers should have been a _cinch_ to kill- I mean, it makes no _sense_- we had them outgunned, and they're _obviously_ drunk as Bacchus- but it's as though their inebriated stupor renders them impervious to pain- I _swear,_ limbs were hacked off, their _own _limbs, and they _still _kept fighting! Can you credit it? I cannot, and I saw it myself. Ghastly. Positively_ ghastly." _

"I must go," Elizabeth told the young sailor urgently, "I must rescue my friends- they're still on the _Black Pearl!"_

"The _Black Pearl_?" the sailor countered, chuckling darkly. "Why, that's nothing but a superstitious fishwife's myth, a campfire ghost story. There's no such ship- Oh, introductions. Hullo. Name's Martin Tweak, jolly nice finally meeting you, if you are really the _real _you, which I assume you must be, on account of that pirate who dropped you here calling you Miss Swann-"

"He's _not _a pirate!" Elizabeth corrected hotly.

"Then he keeps mighty unusual company."

"Martin, the pirates, they_ can't_ die," Elizabeth informed him, trying to writhe her wrist out of his hand. "And you'd_ best_ start believing in ghost stories," she added intensely.

Martin pressed his lips into a twisted, disapproving line.

"Caspian!" yelped a feminine voice from the middle of the deck. "Nobody said _you _had to fight these things!"

In the midst of all the morning seafog, smoke, bayonets, cutlasses, and combatants, Elizabeth caught sight of a whirling flash of indigo and cardinal red. It was Queen Susan, wearing a red officer's coat over her flimsy, flowery under-dress thing; and High King Caspian the Xth, with one sleeve ripped off, and a cutlass gripped in his hands.

"Sink me! It's Phyllis!" Martin exclaimed, as he also spotted the two royals.

"I feel I must fight, else I am shirking my duty," Caspian was saying. He sounded dizzy, like Will, and his black hair whipped around his ears as he flicked his head around in all directions, like a wary bird. "We are still on a quest, are we not?"

"You can't wield a _sword, _silly, you'll fall over with the first swing!" Susan argued.

"But I must-"

"Oh, _fine _then. Here," Taking a rifle from a dead soldier, she shoved it into Caspian's hands, and took his sword. "Be a sharpshooter then. That doesn't take much effort, just aim."

"Teach me?" asked Caspian.

"Oh right, you don't know how to- well, neither do I! Just because I'm good with bows, _doesn't _mean I'm good with guns- especially old-fashioned guns."

"Teach me anyway?"

"_Why _can't I ever say no to you?" Susan sighed.

"Because I'm dashingly charming?" Caspian guessed teasingly.

"You're _nutters!"_

"_She's _nutters!" Martin exclaimed snootily. "Good gracious," he added, as Susan started parrying a pirate's sword-blows with her cutlass, and Caspian got knocked down to the deck by another pirate. "Is she trying to _fight? _A female soldier? What a notion! Absurd! She must be off her rocker, blooming barmy, bonkers, daffy, flaky, absolutely nutters! One moment, Madam Swann- stay there!"

Instantly disobeying, Elizabeth sprung up on her heels, and darted back towards the _Pearl'_s taffrail, and the grappling hooks. She hoped Susan and Caspian would make it out of their pickle, but she also knew that the only way to _actually_ win the battle was to break the curse.

She stopped short as she saw a lanky boy in the fog, five step ahead of her, talking to Norrington. She only caught the end of the boy's sentence: "-yeah, I'll look, but don't expect much, she got swept off to sea, remember? But her friend should still be on the _Black Pearl,_ and I have to, ya know, finish the quest, Free Will, and all."

Elizabeth almost didn't recognize him at first, since all the smoke was making her eyes sting, and he was much scruffier than he'd been when she first met him on Jack's island. It was young King Edmund, his shirt untucked and stained with gunpowder, and his blue-yellow striped tie tied around his forehead as a headband to help dampen the eardrum-shattering sound of cannonfire, pinning his short black hair down over his ears. He was missing one of his stockings, and had a military cutlass clenched in hand.

Pausing as he stepped one foot over the rail, Edmund asked, "Oh hey- um- what's he look like, even?"

"Women seem to find him attractive," Norrington replied bitterly. He was also roughed-up, with his wig half-torn off and hanging on by just a few pins, and a reddish stain seeping through his stockings below the knee.

"Um- anything more specific? You know, details?"

"Brown curls, brown eyes, shorter than me, wears brown, mostly. Oh, that, and, if he truly _is_ the pirates' captive and not _with _them, he ought to be locked up, I imagine. In fact, either way, he _ought_ to be locked up."

"Brown. And not tall. Thanks, that helps," Edmund said sarcastically.

"No it _won't _help, actually," Elizabeth corrected, coming forwards, "on account of Will looks a tad more like a graveyard zombie, now. Tattered flesh, stitches, yarns, shirtless, hard to miss- I'm coming with you," she told Edmund firmly, frowning as she noticed a shallow cut atop his shoulder, close to his scrawny neck.

"Elizabeth!" Norrington exclaimed in astonishment.

"Come _on, _your majesty!" Elizabeth urged, trying to climb over the rail herself.

"Majesty?" Norrington echoed bewilderedly. But seeing what Elizabeth was up to, he stopped her, restraining her, dragging her to the Great Cabin.

"James, please, let go, I have to- I must-" She tried to tug away, but his grip was as solid as oak. She considered nailing him- her nails were certainly long enough to be dangerous- but decided that would be too embarrassing, too immature. He'd see her as a child again. After all her and her father's effort to convince him of the contrary.

Besides, Norrington's tall, masculine presence was vaguely comforting. It was hard to smell anything but smoke, but this close to Norrington, Elizabeth could detect a faint whiff of lavender and beeswax, from the soap he always used. He'd been using the same type since she was twelve. The smell was very familiar and grounding; it made everything seem slightly less surreal. It reminded her of civilization, of home; of a world without fauns, and magic, and Aztec curses.

Elizabeth shut her eyes momentarily and took a slow breath, recalling countless Caribbean afternoons where her father and James discussed business over a tray of black tea and mango scones, while she sat primly in a corner, embroidering sails for a model ship...

"Your father has been captured by the enemy," Norrington informed her crisply, as he tugged her into the Great Cabin with him, and barred the door behind them. "I don't need _you_ captive as well."

"I _am _a captive, you're keeping me here against my- will. Oh, Will..." Elizabeth felt fire in her throat as she gulped back a worrisome sob, and thought of her spry, trim, exquisite, blacksmith hero.

"Everything's about Turner, isn't it?" James muttered stiffly, leaning his forehead on his raised arm as he peered hawkishlyout the cabin windows. Turning to face her, he added, "Are you aware he commandeered a ship-of-the-line and threw his lot in with the same pirate who attempted to strangle you with chains?"

"_Amply_ aware," Elizabeth shot back brassily. "But Will did it to rescue _me, _can't you see? Good Lord James, can't you at _least _give him credit for that?"

Refusing to answer, Norrington grabbed a rifle off a nearby writing-desk, bashed it through one of the small square windowpanes, and fired off a shot at an enemy.

"What are you doing?" Elizabeth asked dubiously, as he re-loaded the rifle.

"Elizabeth, we can still win. If I can rally all the remaining men, all the scattered stragglers, to the Great Cabin- it's like a fort, I had it constructed specifically for cases of siege and mutiny- there's hidden food and ammo stores, we could hold the pirates off for a fortnight- possibly a month. And we can slowly wear them down-"

"James," Elizabeth interrupted tersely, "they don't tire, they don't stop, they _don't_ die. Traditional military tactics are useless! Our only hope-"

"Well- what about non-traditional military tactics?" a voice from behind proposed timidly. Elizabeth glanced around, recognizing the speaker as Officer Murtagg, one of Port Royal's dock guards. She knew him a little- ever since her father had banned her from traipsing off to the docks herself, she'd ordered Murtagg to collect fascinating sea tales from sailors and tell them to her. She'd first heard tell of the legend of the _Black Pearl_ from Murtagg, actually.

"Yeah, yeah- here's a thought-" said the other dock guard, who was also there, "we could have two men, holding a long rope between them, standing one at the stern and one at the stem, then, at a signal- maybe a birdcall- they run across the deck to the other rail, tripping up all the pirates on deck with the rope!"

"You half-wit," Murtagg argued, "then all the _marines_ would be tripped up too!"

"Well, we could cut down all the sails so's they'd fall on top of the pirates, and-"

"No!" Elizabeth yapped. _"Will _is our only hope! He needs to return his blood to the Aztec chest along with the blood of every pirate here and on the _Pearl_, to lift the ancient curse of the Aztec gods, which makes all the pirates immortal! We _have _to help him!"

"Aztec curses?" said Norrington skeptically. "Don't talk rubbish, Elizabeth, _not _now."

"_Strike yer colors, ye bloody cockroaches!" _hollered one of the marauding pirates from outside the Great Cabin. Someone shot in a window, scattering wavy glass shards.

"Devil take it, we're being overrun..." Norrington muttered forbiddingly. The eternal confidence slipped from his militantface, revealing a rare, indecisive taking Elizabeth's arm, he led her to the curving hull, pulled open a cramped closet compartment, tugged out a couple shelves, and stuffed her in it. "They don't know you're in here," he told her firmly. _"Keep_ it that way."

"_Honestly_ James," Elizabeth drawled, "the first place _anyone _looks is the closet!"_ I should know, _she added mentally._ "_Besides, that's my_ father_ out there, and Will could be-"

"Look, Elizabeth," Norrington implored starchily, "I vow to you, if you stay in here, safe, I shall do everything in my power to recover Mr. Turner safe and sound, which is a great deal more than anything _you _could do to aid him."

Elizabeth pressed her pouty lips tight together, narrowing her eyes, which were still stinging. "You think I'm just a weak, pathetic ornament, don't you, incapable of defending myself or others?"

"I think you are a rash, beautiful, contrary woman, with the heart of a soldier," Norrington answered sincerely, with just the slightest tremor in his strong voice. "_How_ever-"

"James," Elizabeth pleaded, "let me come with you, please, we'll stand a better chance together."

"And how, pray tell, is that?"

"Because they won't shoot at you if they think they'll hit _me._ Because I'm a woman and they've been without 'pleasurable company' for ten- hey!" she yelped, as the closet door shut in her face. _"James,"_ she pleaded loudly through the closet door, pressing her palms against the unfinished wood, "About- about your proposal- I-"

"Pray do not decide upon anything rashly, madame." She heard the sound of a latch being hooked. "This really is _quite_ the safest thing. Do understand." "See that she stays put," he ordered the dock guards. "I'll rally the crew."

"Aye, aye, yessir, Commodore sir!" they chimed. After all, they _were _guards.

Elizabeth pounded on the door, whined and pleaded, but the darned dock guards refused to disobey a direct order from the Commodore.

_Of __course__ James won't risk everything to rescue Will, _Elizabeth knew, _it would be a __ridiculously__ untactful military maneuver, from his point of view._

Hitting the wall again, she felt something jab into her shoulder from behind. Jumping, she accidentally bapped her head against the low ceiling. Turning around tightly, scraping her shoulders on the wood in the narrow space, her fingers brushed over the watertight hull, searching for whatever poked her. Her hand closed around something which felt like a latch. _It's worth a try... _she thought, flipping the latch-thing.

Instantly, the back of the closet swung open, and flew outwards wildly on a pair of hinges, as the _Dauntless_ lurched in the waves. Elizabeth remained clutching onto the latch of the secret door, screaming pathetically. When she opened her eyes again, she saw that she had caught onto a rail on the _Pearl_ with her foot. The distance between the two ships was so small now, that she probably could have jumped it from back in the closet, if she'd had any space for a running start.

_I shall fall, I shall fall, I shall fall, oh, dear Lord, I shall __fall__!_ She thought madly, _and __just__ when I'd begun to dry out from that dank old bilgewater too! _

But somehow, she didn't; somehow, she managed to let go of the latch, to _not _fall, and to climb up the rail, back onto the _Black Pearl_, which was still heavy with fighting. Will, Grassroot, and Lucy were nowhere in sight.

So Elizabeth's feet raced to the captain's cabin.

For she had a hunch, a sudden epiphany, and she was going to test it. _If __I__ were Barbossa,_ she thought, _If __I'd__ spent __ten__ years cursed because some turncoat's blood and coin were missing from the chest, why, I wouldn't trust anyone, not I. I'd see to it that __all__ my crew put their blood and coins back, all but __me__, and I'd put my __coin back too, so I wouldn't lose it, so the __only__ thing I'd have to return to the chest __this__ time would be my __own__ blood. Now __where's__ that knife I stabbed Barbossa with at his ghastly little dinner party monologue? s_he wondered, as she crept in through the swinging doors and vermilion curtains hung in the captain cabin's doorway.

She darted to the table first off- worried that it might have rolled off into some dark corner of the candle-lit cabin, or that Barbossa might have wiped it clean. But no, there it was, lying neatly on a napkin, still crusted in Barbossa's blood._ Hahaha-ha... _Elizabeth thought triumphantly, snatching up the weapon. She didn't have to search long to find the chest either- it was just sitting there, out in the open in the direct middle of the cabin. _Unguarded._

The chest looked sinister, mystical, cryptic... Elizabeth lifted the heavy, gold-crusted lid quickly, despite the overwhelming impulse to do it slowly and dramatically.

But _just_ before she dropped the knife in, she hesitated. _Wait..._ she thought, _if I put this back in, will Will die? Is he too badly injured to live? But what if I __don't__ put it back in, and all the marines and the Narnians are killed? Ooh..._ _the choice between __Will__, and __everybody__... Why is it so hard?_

Her distressing choice was interrupted by two dueling swordsmen wheeling in through the doorway curtains. Actually, one was a boy, but he moved like a man, with strength and grace and finesse. King Edmund. The other was Jack, and he moved like a cobra, swaying distractingly, and striking cunningly.

Elizabeth darted behind an Oriental dressing screen, and peeked out warily. For the first time, she saw what a formidable fighter Jack could be. Before now, all she'd seen him do was bluff and run. Which he was, in his own right, quite formidable at.

"Where's Lucy and Grassroot and Turner?" Edmund demanded breathlessly.

"Crossing blades wiv a pirate, eh?" Jack sighed heavily. "Will the younger generation _never _learn?"

Elizabeth wanted to shout out, _"Edmund, careful! Smart boys don't __do__ such risky nonsense!"_- but that would give her away, wouldn't it?

"Actually, compared to you, I'm _not_ the younger generation," Edmund retorted ironically, as Jack cornered him up against the chest. "And speaking of crossing, you're a real double-crosser, aren't you? You play both sides. It won't work out in the end, you know. I know, I've been there. It's like..." Spotting the gleaming coins in the cracked-open chest, Edmund plucked one up, while still keeping his sword at the ready.

_Oh no, don't you __dare__..._ Elizabeth thought, but it was too late to warn him.

Edmund gave the coin a spin atop the chest lid. "...It's like a spinning coin," he said. "There are only two sides, and you have to fall on one eventually. Sort of like that scripture verse that goes... Oh, something about, 'No man can serve two masters'. I heard that in Sunday school."

"How theologically charming for you. But what _if_," said Jack, picking up the spinning skull-faced coin, and flipping it back and forth between his fingers, "_both_ sides are just as ugly? Furthermore, what _if_ the gold coin you just plucked up to illustrate an instructive analogous moral to said double-crossing pirate, were, in fact, a cursed Aztecian coin what turns you into an immortal undead nocturnal skelly-thing?"

Edmund looked concerned.

Jack just smirked tauntingly, and crooned, "Long live the king."

Elizabeth shied further back into the shadows of the dressing screen, not sure what to do now. Edmund was safe anyways- in a manner of speaking...

"By the way," Jack admitted, brushing his hand over the other coins, and inconspicuously snatching another one as he circled around the chest towards Edmund, "yer not half bad with a blade."

"Oh that's nothing," Edmund jested sharply, "You should see what I can do with a yo-yo."

Suddenly, the cabin doors banged open again, to reveal Barbossa standing jauntily in the doorway. He was missing the monkey this time, but that didn't make him any less menacing. If anything, the absence of the annoyingly cuddly critter made him _more _menacing. "Liar to the core, as always, aren't ye, Jack?" he sneered contemptuously.

"How so?" Jack asked guilelessly.

"Well, here ye are, disobeying orders, in me cabin-"

"_My_ cabin," Jack corrected waspishly.

"-consortin' with the enemy-"

"I wouldn't call it _consorting," _Edmund cut in, looking at his sword pointedly. "Blimey, I feel odd..."

"-Stealin' from me rightful plunder," Barbossa went on, his old eyes tightening in furious, curious astonishment, as he squinted at the cursed coin Jack held. "Could even you be_ so daft?"_

Shrugging mischievously, Jack replied,"They're so pretty- couldn't resist, mate. It's a curse, I guess."

"So what now, Jack Sparrow?" Barbossa inquired tiredly, pulling out his sword as he stalked the room, his attention focused on Jack. His cutlass came down on Jack's sharply, as he added nastily, "Joined the immortality club, have ye? Are we to be two immortals, locked in epic battle until the trumpets of Judgment Day?"

"Or you could surrender," Jack suggested perkily, shoving Barbossa backwards into the table.

"_O_r I could chain you to a cannon and drop you in the deepest part of the ocean, where you can contemplate your folly _forever," _Barbossa threatened icily.

"Or you could make that mistake again," Jack retorted cheekily. _"Or_ we _could_ cease this silly sword-swinging, as I _am_ on your side, mate."

"Ow!" Edmund yapped suddenly, "What pricked me?"

If he hadn't said that, nobody would have seen him vanish into nothingness, not Elizabeth, and not Jack.

Sparrow let his sword-point drop in stunned shock. He pointed incredulously, slack-jawed, to the to thin air that had been Edmund. "Did you see that?" he exclaimed.

"See what?" Barbossa asked.

"Poof, gone!" Jack said with an illustrative explosive hand motion. "Well, now we _hafta _go to their worwld, don't we, Hector?"

"What d'ye mean?"

"That boy, King Eddy, took a coin, mate. We'll be skeletony fer eternity, 'nless we get it back."

"And what makes ye think it's 'his' world he vanished to?" Barbossa asked, unconvinced.

"Because..." Jack's eyebrows tugged downwards and his mouth slid to the side of his chin, as he concentrated hard. "His sister! His sister, the kitten- the kitten mentioned somefin' about a magical horn which could summon them through worlds. Somefin' like that." After a blank pause, Jack asked tartly, "Well have you a better idea?"

"Aye," Barbossa replied musingly, lowering his own sword finally. "I were thinkin' on offerin' up all of them there navymen as human sacrifices to the Aztec gods- ya know, prayers of praise, pleas for redemption, carved-out-hearts, and all that, the whole shabang. Might soften the heathen gods up a notch, if ya take my meaning."

"But... that spit-of-an island wiv the 'tween-worlds passage to Narvia is not far. And there's still rum there!" Jack reminded Barbossa enticingly. "And I reckon you're runnin' low."

"But we cannot _enjoy_ rum, can we, Jack?" Barbossa countered sarcastically.

"But-" Jack stammered uncomfortably, "_surely_ there's no call to go carving hearts out. _Even_ navy hearts. I mean, they _did _surrender."

This was news to Elizabeth, and it struck her as odd. James was _not_ the sort to surrender.

Looking Sparrow in the eyes scornfully, Barbossa sighed, _"Try_ ta lose that goody-two-boots attitude, Jack."


	21. Recollecting & ReCollecting

Author's Note: Yes, yes, I know- nearly a five month delay. There's not really much of an excuse for that... unless I'd died or something. To tell you the truth, I'd sort of dropped this again. But I have ideas again (_finally_), and an ending in mind, and yes, dear readers, I'm officially_ back_.

;)

* * *

=Chapter 21: Recollecting and Re-Collecting=

* * *

The White Witch, of course, had expected the three absentee Pevensies to fall right into her icy clutches.

It just didn't work that way.

No one had bothered to inform Jadis that Susan's horn was an extremely non-specific magical artifact. Its call merely summoned the kings and queens of Narnia back to_ somewhere_ in Narnia, rather than a certain, preplanned spot. Furthermore, if the Narnian royals were not actually holding onto each other when they were called, they got scattered to all corners of the Narnian map, absolutely randomly.

* * *

_Well, perhaps not absolutely randomly,_ Lucy thought, as the pricking sensation ceased, and she felt her socked toes sink into warm sand. She curled them blissfully, ignoring the blisters she'd gotten from tramping across the Calormen desert the last time she'd been in Narnia.

The late sunset light was sultry and mellow, and low on the horizon, and the caressing breeze smelt of apple blossoms. Even with her eyes closed, Lucy knew exactly where she was. The beach beside Cair Paravel castle. She opened her eyes to verify the fact. Yep, dillapidated, once-grand stone ruins, perched high on a seaside cliff.

"Thank you, Aslan," Lucy breathed gratefully. Slinging the broken lantern she'd been fighting under pirates with only moments ago over her shoulder, Lucy began the short trek up to the ruins of her old home, where she'd once reigned as queen. A very much _adult_ queen. It was the strangest thing in the worlds to be in a child's body again, to be under five feet again... _I'm going to have to relive puberty,_ she thought with a grimace.

But nothing could get her down now. Ever since Will Turner got tortured, she'd been praying and pleading for her healing cordial, and here she was, exactly where she'd left it. _That_ was no accident.

Lucy had a sort of feeling that Aslan was looking out for her more than she'd realized, even when she wasn't in Narnia. This thought warmed her heart with an internal sunshine, and her fingers stopped quivering- she hadn't even noticed they _were_ quivering until they stopped, quelled by the wave of calm sweeping over her.

But calmness aside, she still had _plenty_ to worry about. The mop Grassroot had been fighting with had just gotten snapped by a hefty blow from a pirate's cutlass when Lucy got called back to Narnia; and Will, of course, was practically a walking zombie corpse; and Edmund and Su and Caspian had probably drowned way back when the raft broke up, and if_ she'd_ been summoned to Narnia_ now_, it meant Narnia was most likely in danger again- or the same group of rogue supporters of the White Witch had simply blown the horn again- or who knew, perhaps thousands of years had passed, and there was some far pricklier danger than Jadis awaiting her.

Looking at things positively though, Lucy knew the pirates would much rather sell Grassroot as a circus attraction than kill him and even though Will_ looked_ like the walking dead, he actually_ was_ the walking dead, on account of taking a cursed immortality coin, so at least he couldn't die- for now. And lastly, if there was even the slightest chance of her siblings still being alive, Lucy would have an easier time finding them here than in the Caribbean, since Su's horn would've summoned_ them_ back to Narnia too.

Lucy wasn't sure about Caspian, though.

* * *

Rage clutched Susan like crabs. She_ knew_ what the pinching meant.

Obviously, Narnia needed her- _But at the moment, I daresay Caspian needs me more!_ she thought furiously. Dropping her cutlass, her hand reflexively jerked out and seized Caspian's gauntleted one. Her fingers laced desperately through his, and she squeezed hard against the rusty, grimy metal- so hard that, if not for the gauntlet, she'd be bruising Caspian's fingers as well as hers.

Caspian was like... like a sapphire. Like finding a sapphire on the beach, staring and admiring it a little while, and then just... abandoning it, simply walking away- and then by and by, you start to regret it, but by the time you turn around, look back, a wave has crashed over the sapphire and tugged it back into the sea, and then the beach gets shut down because of something absurd like, oh, say... a crocodile infestation, so you can't even go back, you can't even look for it; it's lost to you forever. Then, by chance, you stumble across the_ same_ sapphire on a different beach, and at first, as much as you _long_ to, you don't believe it, but finally, you accept it _is_ real, and well, this time you're smarter. This time you grab it, you treasure it, you never let go.

Susan realized that this was sort of a garbled, run-on analogy, which likely wouldn't have gotten her stellar grades in an English class. But for her and Caspian, it fit.

As she opened her eyes to a dusty orange and indigo, leaf-framed Narnian sky, Susan could still feel the memory of Caspian's iron-clad fingers woven and crushed between hers, as clearly and solidly as if they were really still there.

And luckily, they _were,_ considering the seventy-foot drop.

"Susan!" Caspian gasped, as they shuddered to a sudden stop.

Susan's right arm felt like it'd been yanked out of its socket, and all her breath was knocked out of her chest, so she couldn't answer at first.

Hastily, she tried to piece together the situation. She and Caspian had fallen about ten feet, and landed in the branches of an enormous tree. She couldn't tell exactly_ how_ tall the tree was, because, the bottom trunk was shrouded in thick, white mist. One thing Susan _did_ know though, was that if she hadn't grabbed Caspian's hand, they'd likely both be dead now. They'd fallen on either side of a branch as thick as an apple barrel, with their hands still clasped on top of the branch- the only thing keeping them both from plummeting to their dooms.

But even as she realized this, Susan could feel her fingers slipping off the cold, rusty iron gauntlet. Suddenly, never letting go of Caspian seemed about a trillion times harder.

"Caspian," Susan struggled to say, as she dropped her neck down towards her left shoulder, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of Caspian's face under the gigantic branch, "you- have- to grab my hand!"

_"Trying,"_ Caspian replied haggardly, "but I can't get any proper grip in the accursed gauntlet-"

"No, your other hand!" Susan gasped, straining to throw her free arm up over the branch. "You have to grab my other hand with your other hand! Quick!" she added, as she felt the strain in her right knuckles magnify, and clawed deep into the bark with her left fingernails, totally decimating what was left of her last coat of nail polish.

Caspian tried. He wrenched the limp side of his body up with effort, and swung his free arm far up over the branch, catching the wrist of Susan's free hand.

She twisted her wrist sharply, and grabbed his wrist too, just as his gauntleted hand and hers broke apart.

Then, with several more tries and swings, they managed to catch each other's wrists on that side as well, so they were both supported by both arms.

Susan drew in a deep, therapeutic breath of relief. Letting her neck drop forward, she rested her forehead against the branch's scratchy, mossy bark, and felt a slow grin creep up under her nose. "It worked!" she exclaimed delightedly. "I didn't let go, so I dragged you back to Narnia too, and- oh wait- oh, oh_ I_ get it now. You're a king of Narnia too, aren't you? I suppose my horn just summons back Narnian royalty of all sorts. Oh, I _am_ glad you're here!"

"Uh- urgh- yes, as am I," Caspian replied in a strained mumble, between heavy, puffed breaths. "Um, Susan, I can't- I, my eyes- everything is glimmering black, and-"

"Oh_ drat_ it all," Susan sighed. She'd forgotten how bad off Caspian was from that dose of gauntlet poison- he'd probably be blacking out from the strain any instant now, and then Susan's grip would be the only thing keeping them both from falling.

Yet if she could possibly drag Caspian up atop the branch before then...

"Look," Susan gasped, "I'm going to try to swing my foot up, and get atop the branch, okay?"

"Mmm. Sure," Caspian grunted, in a hazy, hardly-there mumble. "Tally-ho."

Trying to summon all the strength and momentum she could, Susan lurched her left leg up, and tried to grip the branch with her knee and ankle- but the branch was much too slick with moss for her buckled military shoe and smooth white stockings that one of the navy officers had insisted on lending to her- since apparently, 18th century men had some absurd, archaic notion of it being highly improper for a female to show her bare ankles.

After the second try, when her foot dropped down yet again with a dangerous jerk, Susan scraped her left shoe against the heel of her of her right one, and managed, with difficulty, to pry the left one off. It made little crackling sounds as it hit into small branches on the way down, frightening some tiny, topaz-blue birds into flapping upwards past Susan's ear, fussing and chirping madly. Kicking of the stocking next, Susan swung her foot up- it was bare now, since she'd removed her torn nylons back on the Dauntless.

_Yes!_ she thought, as she finally snagged the knob in the top of the branch with her toes and heel. "Caspian, I got it!" she gasped, as she strained to pull her shoulder and hip upwards, "I think I've really-"

At that precise moment, something roughly the size of a mutated alligator scampered over the branch, trampling Susan's straining fingers and toes with scaly footpads and clicking claws.

Shocked senseless for half a second, Susan reflexively let go of Caspian's wrists, and felt herself plummeting, felt the wind whishing up under her arms, and her black hair and red jacket-flaps flying up into her face in a tangle. She failed to breath, infinitely annoyed that her last mortal thought would be, _Golly, that was stupid..._

Her back thudded hard against something soft and scratchy, and she blinked open her eyes, afraid to look. Unsettled dust and feathers floated mindlessly in the air above her, swishing lazily downwards in the green-tinted forest sunset. One of the feathers landed on her nose, and she stared at it cross-eyed- it was golden, and flecked with still-fresh, sticky, blood droplets.

"These are griffin feathers, or I am sore mistook," mumbled a muted voice.

Susan's neck and shoulders jolted up, and the petrified feeling stopped clutching her innards. Caspian was alive, face-forward, with his cheek crushed into a thick wall of feathers, fur, and twigs, and one leg still dangling over the side of the-

"It's a nest!" Susan exclaimed in amazement, as she grabbed Caspian's shoulder, and rolled him the rest of the way in. "A gigantic nest! Is it a griffin's nest then, d'you suppose?"

Rolling up to a low crouch, Caspian stared motionlessly at something half-hidden behind one of the watermelon-sized, cracked eggshells, which were pale aqua, and speckled with blue-and-yellow dots. Drawing in a ragged breath, he limped forward on his knees and one elbow, then cautiously brushed away some of the dinner-plate-thick chips of eggshell, and picked up.. a humanoid skull. With horns.

"This could've been Grassroot..." Caspian whispered in a hoarse, horrified breath. "If he'd gone on that addled quest I forbid... just imagine... and _Reepicheep_ said I was just being_ stuffy_ and _paranoid_."

"But- but griffins don't eat fauns!" Susan protested weakly, and as she spoke, she noticed a dead, half-chewed otter- one of the talking sort- on the other side of the nest. She realized that the fur lining the nest wasn't _just_ pale, tawny, griffin down-feathery fur, no it was also fox-fur, and cheetah-fur, and horsehair, and-

A screeching, nickering, hyena-like laugh pierced the still air of the forest canopy, and Susan's and Caspian's eyes jerked up simultaneously.

About twenty feet up, smiling and cackling down at them from the branch they'd just dropped from, was the alligator-like creature which had startled them into falling. From its back, a magnificent set of pearly lemon, translucent, veined wings stretched outward luxuriantly, revealing a bat-like bone structure, and opposable claws.

Neither teenage royal breathed the word 'dragon', but they were both thinking it.

It was obviously a juvenile, and its tail was lashing and bouncing with vim, which meant it was feeling playful.

_Which means we can expect to be chased and nibbled and toyed with before it devours us, and adds our skulls to its nest as new playthings,_ Susan concluded bleakly.

Wondering vaguely _why_ she kept getting drawn back to places in Narnia with dragons, Susan reached a hand towards a long, white, sharp, gnawed-at bone, keeping her eyes on the frisky dragonling all the while.

But Caspian's hand sharply gripped her wrist, and he thrust his lips close to her ear, and whispered, "We mustn't attempt to injure nor affright it! If screeches but _once_ for its mother, our dooms are sealed. Sealed in flame," he added unnecessarily.

"So what _do_ we do? Susan whispered back, not exactly relishing the idea of trying to climb down the branches of this titanic tree with a frolicsome dragonling in close pursuit.

Caspian's helpless, hazy-eyed silence seemed to seal their dooms as surely as any dragon-flame.

* * *

Technically, Edmund shouldn't have_ felt_ the pinching sensation. Or _anything_, period.

But after all, Deep Magic was involved.

Everything simply went black, and at first, Edmund wondered who'd hit him. He'd been alone in the _Black Pearl_'s captain's cabin with Captain Sparrow and Barbossa, hadn't he? Maybe one of the pirates had snuck up on him from behind... Edmund took an experimental step forwards- staggered blindly and tripped to his knees, disproving the theory of being knocked-out. He heard pebbles plunking into something that sounded wet, and started wishing again that he hadn't lost his electric torch in Narnia.

Then he blinked a few more times, and as his eyes adjusted, he saw green water below his knees, and gold reflections flickering off stone overhangs.

And then it hit him- he probably_ was_ in Narnia.

Thinking that perhaps the only way out of the circle of towering, shadowy cliffs would be to wade through the glinting, jade-hued pool, Edmund stuck his navy cutlass down into the water, trying to gauge the depth. The hilt started getting heavier and heavier in his hand, and Edmund dropped it on the bank of the pool in surprise, as it swiftly crackled into solid gold, from point-to-pommel. Leaning over cautiously, Edmund peered into the depths of the pool... and couldn't stop staring. Everything within was gold- gold birds, gold spiders, gold mosquitoes, gold sticks, gold crabs, gold monkeys... even a gold person.

Edmund recoiled backwards a step. He knew the pool was magic, and he knew it was the wrong sort of magic. _But,_ he reasoned, _if I'm stuck someplace with the wrong sort of magic, I jolly well aught to have a weapon, right?_ It hadn't caught up with him yet that he _couldn't_ die.

So Edmund cautiously tossed a pebble against the sword-hilt, and then a second, and when the sixth pebble clittered harmlessly away without turning to gold, Edmund finally guessed it was safe to pick the sword up. He knew right away, from the weight of the weapon, that it'd be pretty unwieldy in an actual fight, but at least he might be able to use it to scare unfriendly creatures away. And Narnia had _scads_ of _those_.

Getting to his feet, Edmund backed away towards the rocky canyon wall, and started edging along the rim of it, trying to find a way out that didn't include setting foot in the perilous golden pool. He inched along the uneven wall, warily watching the lapping green water just past his toes.

And finally, he made it out of the cliff-circle, and emerged into the darkening, open air of what appeared to be an island, judging by the swaying fronds of palm trees. Thick, swirly clouds and opalescent seafog obscured what was left of the dimming orange sunlight, draping the beach in shadow.

Edmund thought it odd that _he_ didn't feel the same breeze that was swishing the palms... _Maybe the cliffs are just blocking the wind,_ he guessed, glancing at the rock formation he'd just exited.

But as he walked slowly towards the boulder-strewn shore, and still felt nothing, Edmund wasn't so sure.

His uneasy speculations were cut short, though, when he saw a ship's bow cutting through the seafog, and made out puffing square sails.

Edmund's first impulse was to climb atop one of the sandy boulders and shout, _'HEY, OVER HERE!'_ at the top of his lungs. But since the ship was coming towards the island anyway, and he didn't see any distinguishing flags or pennants flying from the ship's masts, he decided to play it safe. Lingering behind the boulder he'd almost jumped up on, Edmund peered around the edge of it, watched and waited.

They were all men, he saw, as they debarked onto the gloomy shore- no Talking Beasts among them- but from this distance, Edmund couldn't tell if they were Telmarines, Calormenes, or Archenlanders. But as best he could figure, the sailors looked respectable enough. From what he could see, they were just collecting coconuts and careening their ship to scrape off the hull, so it would sail better. Edmund remembered the last time_ he'd_ helped careen the _Splendor Hyaline_, back when he was a king, and well... older. It had been hard work, but kind of fun, actually... apart from that one time he and the crew had been attacked by shrieking eels, lurking in the shallows of the tide. Messy business, that.

Finally, Edmund decided the sailors were probably alright folk- and besides which, he_ had_ to get off this island if he was ever to find Susan and Lucy, and besides which, he was _bored_.

He slowly stepped out from behind the boulder. "Um, ahoy there!" he said, not really sure what was the correct way to address them.

Jerkily, one of the sailors swung his long neck around, took one look at Ed, and hurled a jagged knife his way.

Edmund ducked behind the boulder a moment too late, and the dagger hit him in the outer edge of his arm, stabbing straight through his bicep.

Gasping shallowly, Edmund stared at the sadistically serrated weapon impaled in his bloody, gashed flesh in horror... and morbid curiosity. Something was missing. Something was wrong. There was no logical reason on Earth, Narnia, Heaven, or Hell that this wound shouldn't hurt _excruciatingly_. But there was nothing, no sensation whatever. It didn't even tickle. 

_Nothing._

As Edmund freaked out about this absurdity, he heard footsteps thudding softly across the sand, coming nearer and nearer and-

-Edmund spun around, and started climbing the boulder as fast as he could manage with a knife wedged in his arm.

As he'd predicted, the sailors who'd come after him- three of them, Edmund counted, came back around both sides of the boulder at once, trying to corner him in. It didn't take long before they thought to look _up,_ but by that time, Edmund had already made a wild leap to a taller nearby boulder, about six feet away. Amazingly and bizarrely enough, even with all the joggling motion, the knife _still_ didn't hurt a bit.

But as unnerving as that fact was, Edmund was presently more concerned with escaping the sailors, who were looking less and respectable by the instant.

Two of them started climbing up the tall boulder after him, while the third lurked at the bottom, humming quietly.

Edmund shortly decided to risk skidding down the side of the boulder, and dexterously slipped past the lurker, who lunged out to grab Ed, and ended up tripping, and catching merely sand.

Edmund ran madly, with his head low, and his fists swinging. Annoyingly, his feet kept sinking into the soft, powdery grey sand- and then someone threw a rock at him.

Whoever it was, his aim was good- the rock hit Edmund squarely on the ankle, knocking it out from under him, making him flop flat on his face, which jammed the knife an extra two centimeters into his arm. His gold sword went skidding across the sand.

The next coherent thing Edmund knew, both his arms were being brutally wrenched behind his spine, and someone was tying something tightly around his wrists- but he couldn't tell the texture; whether it was smooth or rough, knotty or bristly.

The heel of a boot kicked into his ribs, rolled him over onto his back, and then stepped crushingly on his chest, pinning him to the sand.

The long-necked man looming above him was tall- or at least _looked_ tall from Edmund's angle, and wore an odd hat with a wide assortment of grey, aqua, and yellowed shark teeth dangling down by little round silver earrings, looped together into short chain-links. It shadowed the man's face, so Ed couldn't see anything besides his pointy, frowning jaw.

Crouching down threateningly, and putting even more weight on the boot he was neatly pinning Edmund with, the captor took one look at the dagger embedded in Ed's bicep- and then yanked it out savagely.

It should've hurt. It dang well_ should've_ hurt.

Then the captor seized the top of Edmund's wavy black hair, and thrust his head backwards onto the sand, leaving Ed's neck very exposed.

Holding the bloody knife directly over Edmund's eyes to spook him, the man calmly ordered another, heftier, nearby sailor to,

"Check his teeth."

As specks of blood trickled off the knife and onto Edmund's nose, and as the wind he couldn't feel jangled aimlessly through the shark teeth strung on his captor's hat, the hefty crewmate leaned down and pried Edmund's lips, then jaws open.

"He looks healthy enough to my eye, captain," the hefty sailor concluded. "Kinda scrawny and sinewy, though."

_"Tell_ me about it," Edmund muttered. Like Lucy, he too was starting to_ really_ miss being a grown-up just now.

Standing up, the captain finally stepped off of Edmund's ribcage. Then, dusting off his tattery, mismatched clothes, and adjusting his shark-tooth hat, he said, "Bring him. Oh- and _do_ patch him up before he bleeds to death, won't you." Spotting Edmund's solid-gold sword in the sand, the captain picked it up curiously as he strolled off to his ship.

The burly sailor nodded, and then grabbed Edmund's shirt, pulling him to his feet. First, the sailor tugged Edmund's sleeve up, bunching the fabric around his wounded upper arm. Then, un-knotting the striped school tie headband from around Edmund's ears and forehead, the sailor re-tied it tightly around the wound. He had some difficulty threading it in and out of Ed's armpit though, since Ed's hands were still so tightly tied behind his back.

"Not bleeding much, is it then?" the sailor muttered, staring uncertainly at the patched-up wound. "Guess you've not got much blood then, have you?" He smirked nervously. "You wouldn't happen to be a _vampire_ or nothing, would you?"

_"Maybe,"_ Edmund retorted mysteriously, grinning back darkly.

"But vampires have pointy fangs, right? And you don't," the sailor recalled, sounding relieved.

_"Some_ vampires have _retractable_ fangs, like cat's claws," Edmund made up on the spot. "So you never_ know_ until it's too late..."

"Pack up an' weigh anchor, lads!" the captain hollered from across the beach.

Being careful to keep his neck as far away from Edmund's teeth as possible, the hefty sailor dragged him to the ship.

Deciding he wouldn't get far negotiating with a lackey, Edmund waited until he'd been pulled up onto the nondescript ship's deck. As soon as he spotted the captain, he said accusingly, "You're slavers, aren't you? Might I inform you the slaving trade is _outlawed_ in Narnia? Boy, have_ you_ made a big mistake. Honestly, d'you have _any_ _idea_ who I am?"

"Only clues, the captain admitted, holding up the gold sword and sliding a fondling finger up the long, curved blade. "This is a princely weapon. Yer rich, I wager? High-bred? Bit of a snobbish toff? Nobility, even?"

It occurred to Edmund now that maybe just maybe, telling a bunch of slavers that he was King Edmund the Just of Narnia, Duke of the Lantern Waste, Count of the Western March, and Knight of the Noble Order of the Table, _might_ not be the brightest. Especially if Jadis was still on the loose and out for his blood. "Or _maybe_," he replied finally, staring at the glistering sword, "I'm just a _very_ lucky robber."

"Oh, I think not," the captain replied pleasantly. "Robbers 'ave guilty eyes. Yers are jus' shifty. Yer naught but a liar. Still, you'll fetch a fine price at market, to be sure, but what I wants ter know is, is there anyone who'll pay even more fer ya? And yer gonna tell me, boy."

"Wishful thinking," Edmund scoffed back.

The captain prowled forwards dangerously, sword in hand.

The sailors around Edmund scattered like cockroaches fleeing a bright light.

Edmund didn't back away- he stood his ground, keeping his head high -but the captain simply thumped a hand into his chest, shoving him backwards. Edmund staggered, dangerously close to losing balance.

The captain shoved him again.

Edmund's lower spine hit into the ship's rail, and the slaver captain leaned in, forcing Ed to bend precariously backwards at the waist. Ed reflexively tried to steady himself by grabbing the rail behind him, but since his wrists were tied, all he could do was press his elbows down hard atop it.

"So wha's yer _name_, boy?" the captain demanded, jabbing the tip of the gold sword up under Edmund's chin, forcing him to lean even_ further_ backwards on the rail.

Edmund could hear the waves sloshing and churning below, and hoped they wouldn't rock the boat and plunge the dangerously placed blade up through his jaw by accident. "What's yours?" he answered slowly.

"I ax'ed ya first," said the captain.

"I asked you with better pronunciation."

"Insolent weevil!"

At that moment, just when it looked like the captain was about to waste even the chance of getting a fair market price for Edmund, the moon crept up on one horizon, just as the sun was sinking behind the sea on the opposite horizon, and ghost-blue moonlight filtered faintly through the old, rat-chewed sails...

...And Edmund turned into a corpse.

The captain jumped back two steps, his face frozen in shock.

"Well, I- I'm jiggered!" Edmund exclaimed, staring down at his bony knees, and his foot without a stocking, which was now extremely skeletal, with only a few rotten strands of flesh and ligaments left.

"Aaaahh! A demon! hollered one of the shaken and freaked sailors, who promptly fired a barbed harpoon through Edmund's chest,

"Demon vampire!" the hefty one yelped.

"Knock the evil specter overboard!"

"Consign it to the deeps!"

"This island is cursed!"

Daggers, throwing stars, buckets, and a frypan were hurled at Edmund, making him lose his balance, and toppling him over the rail.

He hit the water headfirst- er, well, _skull_-first, and sank, and sank, and sank...

People normally floated in water, but 'normally' generally included having a chest cavity and lungs that were _not_ pockmarked with great, gaping holes.

_This is sorta like what Captain Sparrow said happened to his mutineering crew after they cursed themselves,_ Edmund realized, as he struggled to tug his skeleton hands free of the ropes. It was much easier now, without the extra flesh and friction of skin, and in only moments, he could move his arms. _But wait, how could that be?_ he wondered._ I mean, it's not as if I took any of the cursed coins, I... oh._ Edmund's mind flicked back to that _one_ coin he'd picked out of the chest and spun atop the lid... _But I didn't actually steal it!_ Edmund mentally protested. But obviously, the cursed gold couldn't pick up on specifics like that.

_Well, now what?_ Edmund thought, as he tried desperately to swim, and soon realized how impossible it was to paddle in water with no flesh between your palms. _At least I can't drown, that's an upside,_ he thought as he sank further and further under the weight of all the metal weapons stuck between his bones.

_I suppose I'll just have to find that cave portal on the borders of Archenland, or possibly just go to Cair Paravel, and hope Su and Lu will find me there... eventually._

Finally, his bony toes hit the silty sand on the seafloor.

Edmund had a feeling he was in for a _long_ walk.

* * *

"Well, _somehow_," Peter said smugly, "I don't think that worked."

Jadis scowled viciously at him. And her scowl was astronomically scarier now that the moon was up, and she'd transformed to wer-wolf form.

Peter just smirked back defiantly, though honestly, he didn't quite know whether he should be worried or relieved about the delay. A half-hour had passed, and still, there wasn't a trace of his siblings anywhere.

"Perhaps try a second time, my queen," the armadillo suggested nervously, twiddling its claws. "Once for the summoning, once for the collecting. Perhaps it works like such."

"Or _perhaps_..." Jadis speculated in a stiff, throaty growl, while twisting Susan's horn thoughtfully between her long, dark nails, "...perhaps they died already, lost forever in the throes of their Other World. That 'twould be _most_ convenient, if not rather a supreme letdown. Yet I shall make a trial of your theory, armadillo." Lifting the horn to her fanged snout, the Witch inhaled slowly, then wedged it between her long tongue and gleaming fangs, and blew a second time.

And just like that, in answer to the mystical call, all of the absentee Royals were were collected right in front of her- Lucy with a backpack and all prepped for travel, Su and Caspian with torn clothes and leaves and feathers stuck in their windblown hair, and Edmund sopping wet, with _tons_ of weapons stuck in him. He was practically a pincushion.

In a stroke of luck, Peter was_ also_ re-summoned- to about five feet closer to Jadis. He just instantly vanished out of the metallic grip of his chains and Arnald's gloved fists, and right into the center of the tight group of Narnian royalty.

"Edmund!" Lucy shrieked, as she saw the weapons jutting out of her brother at all angles. Then the clouds shifted overhead, and she shrieked again,_ louder._

Batty shrieked too, and promptly fainted into a ball of limp, speckled, owl feathers inside his cramped birdcage; and Arnald Macready jumped in shock, his eyes looking dangerously close to popping out.

"It's alright!" Edmund protested, holding up skeletal hands, and staring out of hollow skull eye-pits. "It's just a curse, see?"

"The _Aztec_ curse?" Lu gasped.

"Oh_ Ed_, you didn't take a_ coin_, did you?" Su moaned.

"Susan!" the skeleton that was apparently Ed replied brightly. "Gosh, you look like a jaguar scratching post!"

"_Something_ like that," Su retorted dryly. "Ever tried babysitting a dragon, Ed?"

"Um- Aztec coin?" Peter repeated bewilderedly, feeling lost, and rather left out.

"Huh? Peter?" Ed added, confused. "_You're_ here too? But I thought Aslan said-"

"So did I," Peter cut in briskly.

"At least King Edmund cannot perish," Caspian pointed out optimistically, as the White Witch's minions closed in on their little group. "And we have all found each other- Welcome back, High King Peter! And," he added softly, "we are no longer weaponless."

Caspian glanced at Su, Su glanced at Lu, and Lu glanced at Peter.

Nodding simultaneously, they each pulled a wet weapon out of Edmund.

And so the battle began.


	22. Delusions

****Author's Note: Yes, I know it's been as long as the Hundred-Year Winter since I last updated... and I apologize. In my defense, writing a superhero novel with my three sisters has been a blast, and highly distracting.

* * *

**=Chapter 22: Delusions=**

Silence and shadows, that was the trick.

If they didn't hear him, and didn't see him, they'd never know what sliced them. And they certainly wouldn't _feel _it.

This one was easy. Bare ankles. With bated breath, Will Turner hid behind the stairs to the galley, peering through the shadowy steps, gripping the hilt of his newly-stolen sword snugly. The footsteps on the stairs creaked closer, lower, down and down... and just as the pirate's ankles were right in front of his eyes, Will darted his sword through the narrow space between the steps, and nicked the dirty skin of the pirate- who just kept right on walking, oblivious to his new cut, then disappeared down the hatch to the orlop.

_Thank you, evil, sense-blunting, Aztecian nightmare curse,_ Will thought semi-sarcastically, tugging the sword back delicately. Eyes and ears were Will's only vivid senses now. Smell, taste, touch- those were blotted out, erased. Cautiously, he dipped the blade's point down into the spout of the rum bottle in his other hand, and watched the garnet drops of blood streak down the blade, and drip into the murky glass bottle. _Nineteen down, twenty-eight to go,_he thought, corking the rum-bottle, and tying it back onto his belt with a short piece of twine.

Will had been making these cut-and-run sneak attacks on Barbossa's pirates for the past half-hour, intent on getting at least a few drops of each of their blood into the bottle, and then to smash the bottle into the Aztec chest. Save the day.

Will waited three more minutes, but no other pirates came down or up the stairs, so, getting bored, Will stumbled over to one of the cannons, the farthest one to the stern. From what he could gather, it sounded like most of the pirates were up on the topdeck- but he couldn't very well just waltz up there through the hatch, and get himself caught. _I can't even waltz_, Will added to himself dizzily. Dipping his head past a dirty rope above the hatch, and straining to see past the cannon blocking his view, Will peered out, and up, at the _Dauntless._ It had been grappled and pulled close beside the _Pearl_ by now, so all Will could see was the navy-blue and sunbeam-yellow paint on the hull, and not a bit of what was occurring up on the _Dauntless'_ deck.

Backing away to behind the cannon, Will leaned down and thrust his weight into his shoulders, pushing the cannon-muzzle out through the hatch as far as it would go. Then, moving on to the next cannon, Will unhooked the restraining ropes from the mooring rings, moved to the front of that cannon, and kicked it backwards, away from the hatch.

Next, Will slipped his sword snugly into his belt, crawled out of the hatch, holding onto the ropes just inside it for stability, and reached one foot out, stepping it atop the protruding muzzle of the first cannon he had pushed out. Hoisting himself atop it, Will next made a lung to the left, and grabbed onto the fin of one of the wooden mermaid supports overhead.

But as Will slipped an arm around the mermaid's waist, and hoisted his chest up behind her curved spine, he heard a suspicious noise coming from around the back corner of the ship's stern. So, Will cautiously crawled along behind the row of four identical mermaids, with their outstretched arms holding up the ledge of the Captain's Cabin, until he came to the corner. Holding onto the mermaid's waist with one hand, Will pulled out his cutlass silently, and peered around the corner-

"Elizabeth?" Will exclaimed in gleeful confusion.

"_Will?_" she replied, blinking back at him in surprise, from where she was dangling, her fingers gripped tightly onto a scarlet curtain. Looking up, Will saw that the curtain was tied to something inside the captain's cabin's window, which Elizabeth had apparently just climbed out of. "Goodness Will, what are you _doing_?" she gasped quietly, stepping one foot on the head of the wooden mermaid below her to catch her balance, and then slipping again, and skidding uncontrollably down the curtain.

Catching her elbow, Will helped her crawl behind the wooden mermaid right in front of him, so now they were both behind corner mermaids.

"I'm saving the day. Maybe the afternoon," Will said, squinting at the sun's position on the horizon. "Does starting now count as saving the whole day?"

"I rather doubt it," Elizabeth sighed.

Will stared, mesmerized at her high cheekbones, her bold jawline, her almondy eyes... There was a small scratch-line down her neck, she was still wearing her chalk-white undergown, & she had a long belt wrapped twice around her waist and buckled, which she'd stuck a nice pair of dueling pistols in, & tied some extra packets of ammo to. But even guns looked angelic when Elizabeth wore them.

"Will, what's that?" Elizabeth asked, catching sight of the rum-bottle tied to his waist, and eying the quarter-inch of blood drippings inside the bottle. "Oh," she added, as Will tried to rearrange his scattered thoughts enough to explain his brilliant plan to her, "Oh no, _that_ shan't work Will," she rattled on, "See, I have a theory- what I first figured was that Barbossa already put in all the blood and coins but his own coin, so he could break the curse in a blink if he wished- but I got _that_ wrong, since Barbossa was wearing the medallion coin around his neck last I saw him, so probably he just got his _blood_ in, and all the rest of his crew's blood too, and their coins, and he's just waiting to put his _coin_ in. So, come to think of it, my plan of just slipping Barbossa's bloody table knife into the chest wouldn't have worked even if I'd been bold enough to attempt it. Especially after poor Edmund stole a coin and vanished, rendering it all pretty moot. But I still have Barbossa's knife!" she said, tugging up her sleeve to show a small, bloody table knife she'd tucked up there. "For... whatever _that_'s worth."

"...Who's Edmund?" Will asked distractedly, not following Elizabeth's line of logic very clearly.

"Edmund is the brother of Queen Lucy, also royalty," Elizabeth explained in her rapid, hushed tone. "He's not much more than a lad, dark hair, about my height. Presently, Captain Barbossa is sailing both these ships back to the spit-of-an-island Jack and I were marooned at- isn't that a disgusting turn of phrase, 'spit of an island?'. Anyhow, that's where we first found the Narnian strangers, and where Barbossa hopes to find the passage back to Narnia. We must find King Edmund before Barbossa does, or I fear he shall get his throat slit. Anyway, there's really no point in holding onto that bloody rum bottle there," Elizabeth added.

Will nodded politely, not really understanding or listening to most of what his dearest Elizabeth was saying. He was just glad to have her close. "Hey- wait," he realized suddenly, "didn't I swing you safely to the Dauntless?"

"The Dauntless is taken, Will," Elizabeth sighed bitterly.

"We'll take it back?" Will suggested hopefully, glancing over at the brightly-painted Navy ship.

Pursing her lips crossly, Elizabeth said, "_No_, Will."

"But I'm immortal," Will insisted, confused.

"As are _all_ of Barbossa's crew. All one hundred and fifty of them!"

"I only counted forty-seven," Will corrected.

"Lets just stay uncaptured, shall we?" Elizabeth insisted, forcing a quick, nervous, not very encouraging smile.

"But Norrington- Grassroot- the crew- we must rescue them."

"Gracious Will, no, not now. We can't. Not yet. _Listen_ to me Will," Elizabeth persisted firmly, grabbing his arms to calm him as he started fidgeting in agitation and glancing up at the deck, "The only sensible thing to do is to save Edmund, and return his blood to the chest before Barbossa does it his way. Too many good people have died already. We can't risk heroics, _not_ now. Barbossa's pirates are drunk and vicious and oh yes, _undead_... and they may well hack the measly remainder of our allies to small bloody bits, till you can't tell what was an ear and what was an elbow. Please _do _listen, Will."

A sudden gunshot jolted the air.

"What was that?" Will asked uneasily.

"Once _again_ you scurvy Brits," growled a voice that sounded unnervingly like Grapple, _where's_ little Missy Swann?"

"I should like to know the same thing, blaggards!" retorted a stiff, wavering voice that was unmistakably Governor Swann's. "Where the _deuce_ is my daughter, you reprehensible fiends?"

"You'd be smart ta keep a civil tongue in yer mouth, gov'nor, if ya want it ta stay there," snapped another pirate.

Elizabeth jerked up, and began crawling up her curtain rope again, then carefully sidestepped on the mermaids, rounding the corner of the captain's cabin's window-ledge, past Will, shimmying around the rim of the mermaid taffrail, and finally yanking herself up to a small platform supporting a strip of ratlines.

Will managed to catch up with her, and grabbed her ankle just before she clambered over the cannon-splintered balustrades, onto the Black Pearl's deck. "Don't, Elizabeth!" Will hissed, suddenly realizing that the last place he wanted to see her right now was being grabbled and groped by filthy pirates again. "Stay down here, stay safe, _I'll_ fight them!"

"But Grapple just _shot_ someone on my account!" she whispered back harshly. "My _father_ could be next!"

Will sprung up beside her on the platform, accidentally dropping his bottle of blood, and tugged her down to her knees, wrapping an elbow around her mouth. She glared at him briefly, but her eyes quickly shot back to the scene on the deck, and she craned her neck to see through the bars on the railing.

Will peeked up too. From down here at the corner of the rails, the pirates looked absurdly tall and threatening, with their coattails and bandanna-flaps flickering in the whip-like breeze, and leery smirks pasted on their jaws. It only took a brief glance at the red coats littering the deck of the Pearl, to see that the battle was over, and the pirates had won. The most recent casualty was lying at Grapple's feet, with a bloody, bone-flecked hole blasted through his cheek. Grapple's gun was still smoking, and was currently aimed at Elizabeth's father. Will could feel Elizabeth gulp nervously as her throat throbbed against the side of his arm.

"Throw down yer weapons, swabs!" Pintel hollered at Governor Swann and the few remaining navymen- surprisingly few.

Only seven. Only Groves, Gillete, Martin Tweak, Cummings, Murtagg, Mullroy, and Wylder. Will recognized them all- he'd often seen them up at Fort Charles- seen them, idolized them, and wished he could break free of the legal constraints of his blacksmith's indentures, to join their ranks, and fight piracy and villainy on the high seas. _Oh no, wait, there's eight_, Will corrected, as he spotted Commodore Norrington's storm-blue commodore coat. Norrington was face-first on the deck, and looked mostly dazed senseless, except for the fact that he was shifting an elbow slightly.

Seeing this slight motion, one of the pirates seized Norrington by the collar, and started hoisting him towards the mainmast.

The skinny, wooden-eyed pirate swiped Norrington's fancy feathered commodore hat off his wig with a childish grin. "Now that Captain Barbossa's a commodore an awl," the pirate speculated cheerily, "he'll be needin' a new hat, he will- an' maybe he'll give me his old hat, tee-hee!"

The last seven navymen, seeing that they were unfairly outnumbered and outgunned, started reluctantly throwing down their weapons. But just to make _sure_ they didn't have any concealed switchknifes or valuable items on their persons, the pirates searched them anyways.  
"Hey!" the wooden-eyed one– Ragetti, if Will remembered correctly- yapped suddenly, as he pulled a shiny yellow, metallic item out of Mr. Tweak's coat pocket, "This counts as a weapon! Yo-yo's were used as deadly Phillipine 'unting weapons, they were!"

"How d'ya know all this stuff?" the balding, yellow-eyed Mr. Pintel asked Ragetti with a baffled twist of his eyebrows. "Yo-yos and fauns an' all?"

Ragetti shrugged.

"_Still_ haven't found Turner and the wench?" Barbossa sourly asked a handful of pirates to his left, as he paced into sight from behind the mizzen-mast near the helm, with Jack tagging behind him, saying,

"-Now be reasonable, mate-"

Regetti jumped nervously, and took his stolen commodore hat off quickly, fidgetingly fingering its rim.

"We looked everywhere imaginable, Cap'n!" Dogear insisted earnestly. "Every cranny an' nook!"

"I saw a girl vanish!" piped up the skinny, dreadlocked Jamaican, Mr. Koehler, who Will vaguely remembered being kicked in the head by earlier that morning, during his nightmarish introduction to pirate torture methods. "Inta thin air!" Koehler added importantly.

"Was she Swann?" Grapple demanded, swinging his pistol away from the governor, as he turned to confront his crewmate.

"Naw," Koehler admitted eerily. "Not sure _what_ she was..."

"Want this hat, Commodore?" Ragetti asked meekly, sticking out his twiggy arm, with Norrington's hat balanced on his nutpick-thin fingertips.

"Now _see _here," Jack interjected as soon as he got a chance, pushing aside the hat and getting in Barbossa's face to _make_ him pay attention, "I know ya've got a fancy fer hollering '_toss em in the brig!_', and torturin' folk, but _honestly_- ye've already slaughtered most of my poor crew- it's only Anamaria, Marty, Cotton, Gibbs, Moises and that faun thingamakid whom are left, and _yes,_ they tried ta raid yer armoury and blow ya ta smithereens, granted- but that just shows what crafty and capable and able-bodied men... and woman, and faun- they are, right? So why not just let em go, an' let em join?"

Barbossa just gave Jack a cynical glance, obviously thinking the question was too stupid to answer.

"Well _someone_ is just so communicative today," Jack muttered.

"This is a severely thorny and alarming situation," Governor Swann muttered as a pirate slammed his back against the mast, and another pirate started dragging a thick rope in front of his chest, pinning him and the remaining eight navymen to the mast.

Elizabeth relaxed a little in Will's grip when she saw that the pirates weren't shooting her father _immediately_, anyways.

"You know Murtagg," Officer Mullroy began conversationally as he was tied to the mast too, "when I joined the navy, nobody told me I'd be facing _undead pirates_. It's really bad form. I mean to say, you'd think they'd tell people these things."

"_I_ told you there were undead pirates," the less-stout officer pointed out crossly.

"Yes, but you could've tried sounding a _smidgen_ less addled," Mullroy scolded.

"Would any level of vocal sanity have made you believe me?"

"No."

"Then, _why_ are we having this conversation?" Officer Murtagg retorted, clearly annoyed at the way his afternoon was turning out.

"I don't know, it's actually rather pointless, upon analysis," Jack put in cynically, sinking his elbows back atop a rail, and leaning back with a false carefree attitude.

"So mates," Barbossa asked his crew devilishly, glancing at the trussed-up Brits, "what say you we give our navy friends a proper welcome party? Inventive suggestions are welcome, but I'm thinkin- massacred, cut to kebabs, thrown ta the sharks, the whole shebang."

"Or you _could_ let em live," Jack suggested offhandedly.

"Because that's so _very_ like what I'd be inclined to do," Barbossa drawled, dripping sarcasm, and scowling in Jack's direction.

"At least it'd be original," Jack pointed out.

"As well as no fun whatever."

"But consider, mate-" Jack persisted, "why not keep 'em on as slaves; live like kings! Make em row the sweeps, swab the decks, do all the nastiest chores! That'd be fun, yes? I mean, the lobsters order _everyone_ in the Caribbean around- haven't ya ever, just once, wished ta order _them_ around?"

"I'd rather watch the sharks squabble over their dismembered corpses, pers'nally," Barbossa retorted lazily.

"Wewl- they could join my crew aboard the Pearl, if they bother ya so!" Jack suggested, sounding a bit desperate.

"Oh, aye, an' _mutiny _on ya to boot, an' then the King's Navy's got the fastest ship in the Caribee. _Brilliant,_matey."Barbossa scoffed, as he pried his babbling monkey off his chin, and re-positioned it on his shoulder. "Just shiny. Besides, ya fore'er forfeited yer chance at captaincy of the Pearl when ya mutinee'd on me, Jack."

"_You _started it," Jack shot back.

Just then, Norrington shook his disheveled head an inch, and blinked around in a hyper-critical matter, first down at the thick rope biting into his chest and clamping his back to the mast, then up at the black sails, and finally at scrappy pirates, particularly Ragetti, who was still fidgeting with his stolen Commodore hat. "What the deuce is going on, Groves?" Norrington asked finally.

"The ship is taken, certain persons have inexplicably vanished, we have surrendered, and the pirates are discussing the merits of gullying us into shark kibble, versus letting us join their ghastly crew," Groves reported crisply. "That is all, sir."

"Oh, what rot," Norrington muttered dizzily, sounding defeated, but not broken. "As _if_ any of my officers would sully their honor in such a fashion. Them, pirates? The very notion is laughable."

"Well, lets put that ta the trial, shall we?" Barbossa drawled challengingly, apparently changing his mind. Just to prove the annoying Brit wrong, it seemed, the pirate commodore turned to Norrington's navymen, and asked congenially, "Care ta join my illustrious crew, gents?"

There was an indecisive pause. Lieutenant Groves glanced at Norrington, seeking guidance and finding only sarcasm and exasperation.

"You, Navy dogs!" The Islander pirate yapped out. "Jine up or die!"

"_They_ don't get the choice of jine up, do they?" Dogear snapped back. "Navy puddle-scum like them?"

"Just die, then!" The Islander corrected.

"Course they get the chance of jining, they're good seamen, ain't they?" Barbossa went on sleekly. "They just get no share of the plunder from our previous voyages, is all. Oh- and they'll work without shares, nat'chrally."

"Oy. Fair enough," the Islander conceded with a bony shrug.

"You may as well save your breath," Norrington scoffed, "my men would far rather perish, and gladly too, rather than serve _scum_ such as yourselves, not even if you _begged_ them on hands and knees."  
"He says we concede to your conditions, and humbly forfeit our freedom, to be your willing servitors," Groves corrected quickly, obviously trying to keep a level head, and speak for his dazed commodore.

Norrington gave Groves an angry, weak glare.

"Provided you don't kill or maim any more of our crew," Groves added rapidly. "Mark my words, next navyman killed, and we shall all mutiny, regardless of consequence."

"Done," Barbossa agreed cordially, glancing smugly at the irked-looking Commodore.

"Groves, you sap," Norrington groaned dejectedly. "You _idiot._ Well, _I _for one shall never sail under a skull-and-swords ensign."

"Aye," Barbossa agreed sinisterly, "I don't bank on ye stayin' 'ere long either."

Looking concerned for his commodore's wellbeing, Groves warned, "Now see here, Mr. Barbossa, if you _dare_harm a hair on his wig, I'll-"

"Pipe down, lad," Barbossa scolded, "all I'm sayin' is that the Commodore thar's got ta have his enemies- friends an' folks of blokes he's hung- who'd be all too cheerful ta swap us nigh any price I could name for him. And mark you, I could name _any _price."

"But-" Groves stammered, "-surely they'd kill him!"

Barbossa merely smirked his classic evil smirk.

"Oh, for the love of _crumpets_, how greedy can one get?" Elizabeth whispered to Will, making him realize his hand had slipped off her mouth. "A mountain of gold and gems and priceless baubles, and bloody Barbossa _still _wants to go to all the trouble of bartering a navy commodore on the pirate black market, ransoming him to pirates who'd pay?"

"Quite despicable," Will agreed quietly.

"Unless you swear you shall not compromise the Commodore's safety in any matter, we shan't join your band!" Groves clarified sternly to the smirking pirate captain.

"Then ye'll be shark kibble," Barbossa shot back.

"Then so be it!" Officer Murtagg piped up.

Barbossa sighed irritably, giving his monkey a beleaguered look. "See, this is why I hate bein' merciful. No gratitude, not a smidge." Shrugging, Barbossa added flippantly, "Right then, wise choice lads, ye'll simply adore yer new pirates life, I'll guarantee it. Untie them, mates," he added to the nearby clustered pirates.

"But-" Pintel began.

"Now!"

The pirates obeyed their captain reluctantly, with many a scowl.

"But we _just _refused to join!" Officer Cummings protested, as the rope was unwound from his chest. "We absolutely refused!"

"Oh- now was it ye were ya thinkin' refusal was an _option_?" Barbossa asked him darkly, followed by a low snicker, and a sarcastic glance at his real crew. "I say ya join, then by Neptune ye'll _join_, even the high-an'-mighty Commodore there."

"I bloody will not-" Norrington began, "in fact, you scurrilous, arrogant sea-rat, I-"

"Gag him, if ya please, Scratch, 'afore I succumb to the nagging temptation ta gully his throat out," Barbossa exasperatedly snapped at a scraggle-dreadlocked blond pirate to his left.

Once all the navymen were freed, with coils of rope at their feet, and a bandanna tied in Norrington's mouth as a gag, Barbossa crisply ordered his captives, "First assignment of the day, Lobsters- ye'll be rowin' the sweeps, so as ta make the ship sail faster. It'll be much like rowin' an ordinary rowboat; really a piece of cake- only scads more grueling an' not quite as sticky an' sweet. Off ya go. Maccabee, Scurvy Joe, Hawksmore, Katracho, Nipperkin- do escort our fine prestigious new crewmates to the sweeps, and chain 'em there secure."

"Aye aye, Cap'n Barbossa," the pirates grumbled, as they dejectedly exited down the hatches, tugging the navymen captives along.

Jack abandoned the rail and wandered over again, just in time to shrug, and comment to the exiting navymen, "On the bright side, you're alive. Huzzah, right?"

"An now, as ta final the matter- _captaincy..._" Barbossa declared, obviously in love with that word. "_I'll_ be commandeerin' the _Dauntless_, as aforementioned. Have ye voted amongst yerself which of ye is to now captain the _Pearl_?"

"Grapple there, by reason of he's a bully," Twigg grunted.

"And knows how to bake cake," Ragetti added brightly.

"So... let, me get, this straight-" Jack began in slow disbelief, "had I _just _been a cake-baking bully, you would _not _have mutinied on me, and would gladly have let me be captain?"

"Naw, cuz we don' _like_ you," Pintel snapped back.

"But you like _Grapple?" _Jack asked huffily.

"Naw." But shooting a nervous glance at Grapple's anger-scrunched face, Pintel hastily stammered, "Er, yeah, absolutely, love the guy. Best chap in the world."

"An' don't ya forget it!" Grapple snarled, hoisting up his giant fishhook menacingly.

"_Right _then, now that _that's _settled, you on the port deck stay here on the _Pearl, _the rest of ye- an' _Jack,_ ye too- follow me to the _Dauntless_," Barbossa ordered.

"But what about _my _crew?" Jack persisted doggedly, as he tagged after Barbossa. "Gettin' back ta me previous point, we have reached _no_ satisfactorial accord about their fates. Anamaria, Marty, Cotton, Gibbs, Moises, the faun-beastie, and Miss Swann, and Turner, once we find 'em, what of them? I mean, surely not the plank, right? They could all be excellent crew, ya know. Really, _really_ excellent crew. Only a scatterbrained addle-skull would waste such obvious talent- and, I mean, ya let the _navy _join. Just saying."

"If I wanted yer lot dead," Barbossa drawled back lazily, "they'd be _dead _now, yeh know that, Jack."

"Yes, but there's not to be any more _torture_, is there?" Jack went on between a cautious sliver of silver and gold teeth.

"Stop _pesterin'_ me, or there may be," Barbossa snapped lightly.

Getting the message, Jack sunk sullenly back into the background with the rest of the pirates crossing the gangplank onto the deserted deck of the _Dauntless_.

Just as the last of them made it over, a tall, bald pirate with a tattooed head suddenly jerked up from one of the _Dauntless'_ hatches. "Hoy, I found somebody!" the straggler crowed, hoisting a young Arabian kid forward by the back of his black, slightly red-stained hair. "Not a girl though. Fights like one, though. He were down in the _Dauntless_' brig."

There, in the tattoo-skulled pirate's grip, was an Arabic boy Will had never seen before, whose posture was prouder than a sultan's, despite the fact that his arms were twisted behind his back. There were faint streaks of red die in his sleek black hair, and he was smirking uneasily, looking smug yet scared.

"Who's that?" Will whisper-asked Elizabeth.

"Um- I think a robber prince or something," she replied quietly, stressfully tugging three fingers through the taffy-brown hair drooping by her cheek.

"Name?" Barbossa asked the robber prince.

"Locust," the Arabic boy answered imperiously, holding his chin high.

"And how came ye ta be a captive of the King's Navy, Locust?" Barbossa asked congenially, pacing up in front of him. "Why'd they see fit ta brig and fetter ye, eh?"

"Because they are narrow-minded centipedes," Locust replied smoothly, and entirely matter-of-fact.  
"I like him," Barbossa said brightly. "Ever considered piracy, boy?"

"I am a Prince of Robbers," Locust answered proudly and pointedly, casting a short, furious glare back at the bald pirate still wrenching his arms behind his back.

At a nod from Barbossa, the bald pirate let Locust go.

"Care ta join my crew?" Barbossa re-phrased to the young prince.

Rolling his shoulders back to their usual stiff posture, and granting the pirate another supercilious, condescending smirk, Locust retorted, "Never would I deign to abase myself in such a fashion, yet you ruffians may join _my _band, if you so wish. I am Tisroc of my world, howsoever, my advisors and viziers of state bore and stifle me, so I have detached myself from their bulldog-brained pedantry, and absconded to the Calormen wilderness, free of their restringent entrammelments. A formidable assembly of daemon-creatures and monstrous outcasts now call me lord. We prey upon the resplendent capitol Tashbaan, reclaiming the immeasurable wealth that, in justice, is rightfully my own. I am nearly become a legend in my world. Were you to choose wisely, you might achieve legend-hood as well."

"Oh, I plan to," Barbossa assured him, with a glimmer in his candlewax-colored eyes.

"So you consent to bow to my every whim and command, forsake your former life and loyalties, pledge your wits and weapons in my behalf, and loyally abide my codes of conducts and deportment?" Locust concluded hopefully.

"Nah," Barbossa replied after pretending to think it over. "Can't say I'm inclined."

"You shall regret your jestful refusal of my magnanimous offer!" Composing himself, Locust added, "Ere you foolishly seal your minds against the prospect of endeavoring under my rule, be forewarned and ponder that I have minions skilled in the summoning of Deepest Magic."

"An' I'm an immortal outcast of _Hell,_ yer point being?" Barbossa shot back.

"You truly refuse outright?" Locust snapped, with the slightest quaver of rage slipping through his lazy, arrogant attitude.

"Oh, don' get me wrong- yer whole 'I am a runaway puppet ruler tryin' ta pilfer back my rightful loot story is touching, no doubt, and might strike a chord with lesser thugs. But see, they call _me _captain," Barbossa clarified, nodding his hatted head toward his crew, "and I call no one 'my liege'." "Clubba," Barbossa added, now talking to the bald pirate behind Locust, "put that pompous cock ta work swabbing."

As Locust was dragged off, protesting savagely, to learn his first swabbing lesson, the gangplank was pulled back onto the deck of the Pearl, the grapples between ships were cut, the Dauntless & the Pearl swung apart, and both ships glided on again towards the spit-of-an-island on the edge of the horizon.

Will clamped one hand around the balustrade bars & one around Elizabeth's shoulders as the _Pearl _started bobbing rapidly through the waves again, holding her tightly to keep her from falling. Glancing down below where he and Elizabeth stood, Will could see that their shadows were leaking out across the hull now. Judging from the length of the shadows, it was at least an hour past high noon.

"I changed my mind Will," Elizabeth said suddenly, "We should risk everything. We _should_ save everyone. We should sneak in, unlock Norrington and the rest, and take the _Dauntless _back. Never mind the blood and gore!"

"Alright," Will agreed amiably, "yes, lets!"

"I changed my mind again," Elizabeth muttered just as rapidly, sinking back down onto her knees dejectedly, & shivering slightly. "Oh, I don't know, I just really don't..."

"Alright," Will agreed again, disappointed. He squinted off at the murky horizon for the next half-hour, watching Jack's spit-off an island getting slowly closer and more detailed.

"Land, ahoy!" Ragetti finally yelped, jerking Will out of his staring trance.

The _Pearl_ shuddered as she and The _Dauntless_ dropped anchor just offshore of Jack's tiny island. Will watched pensively as Barbossa's men prepared to debark. From what Will could hear from across ships, Barbossa was taking no chances this time. He insisted that his crew drag along the heavy Aztec chest in a wheelbarrow, just in case the portal Jack mentioned happened to shut again, leaving them stuck in the fairy otherworld with Edmund's blood- but no chest to put it in.

"Wait, why ah' we takin' _Jack _along?" a pirate with shark-tooth earrings asked Barbossa edgily. "An' shouldn' we leave _someone_ ta guard the ships?"

"Jack, I'm takin' cause he's an untrustworthy weasel; the rest of ye, just in case we ALL need ta be present, an' in the _same_ world, for the uncursing of our Aztec bane ta work." Barbossa answered impatiently. "Ya never know with ancient hexes like ours."

"But whad-a-bout Sparrow's crew of seven, the nine navy lubbers, an' mysteriously missing Missy Swann, an' Daft Turner?" Grapple protested uneasily. "Seems an _awful_ lotta people we don't like much ta abandon our prized ships to. An' the Swann girl _did_ set fire ta the _Pearl _once 'afore, let's keep in mind."

"Already thought of, already done, Deputy Commander," Barbossa assured Grapple. "Just in case any of those swabs be entertainin' thoughts of escapin', I've assigned the men ta filch all the handspikes for turning the capstan, so's the anchor can't be raised, and ta remove both ships' rudder chains, sails, an' all navigational instruments on board. So even _if,_ perchance, our fine pris'ners _do_ manage ta escape their cells an' military shackles, an' even _if_ they manage to cut the anchor-chains or raise anchors _somehow,_ they won't be able ta sail anywheres without the _highly _likely chance of hitting into one of the numerous reefs hereabouts, and foundering. Watery graves and feasts for the fishes."

"Yep, seems like you've annoyingly thought out every variable," said Jack flatly. "You look a mite impatient."

"A decade is a long time," Barbossa said simply, staring out towards the nearby palm trees as his crew hurriedly carried out their last tasks before departure.

Creeped out by the prospect of getting stuck in the other world, some of the pirates decided to bring along some of their favorite stuff, in case they got stuck there; including FOOD, guns, swords, hats, cards, dice, and Anamaria. It wasn't a huge surprise that Simbakka had to chain the Tortugan warrior-woman's wrists behind her back, and even then, her vicious kicking, struggling, and bashing her shoulders and elbows into the pirates made some of them jump back a few steps. She was shouting loudly in Haitian Creole- and from her barracuda tone, Will assumed she was cursing.

Will's natural impulse was to leap up and save the damsel in distress, but Elizabeth again tugged him down by his collar, like he was an unruly puppy.

"No Will, think. We can _use_ this distraction," Elizabeth whispered. She nodded wordlessly towards the lowered rowboats that the pirates were prepping for their trip to the island. "No one's looking."

"Why don't we just swim?" Will whispered back, eagerly eying the swishing blue waves below. "We can make it."

"Not without getting the powder in these guns wet!" Elizabeth argued, holding up the dueling pistols, then sticking them back in her belt.

Pondering this predicament, Will finally replied, "We could wrap them in waterproof sealskin and duck feathers."

"We don't _have _waterproof sealskin and duck feathers."

"Excellent point," Will replied admiringly. Elizabeth was so clever sometimes.

Rolling her amazing brassy eyes, Elizabeth crept up on deck, keeping her back bent low, and tossed a loose rope over the side of the ship, letting the end thump quietly into one of the rowboats, which was filled with confiscated sails and suchlike. She then beckoned Will over sharply.

Will saw Jack glance their way, spot them. Will froze, fearing they were done for. But unpredictably as always, Jack instead immediately distracted the attention of his fellow pirates by pulling the monkey Jack's tail, which sent the critter into a shrieking frenzy.

As Barbossa snapped at Jack for pestering Jack; first Elizabeth, and then Will, quickly slid down their rope, right into the jollyboat below. Elizabeth quickly ducked under the rowboat's seats with Will, and tugged a large swathe of black sailcloth over their heads.

"Owww... I should have known better then to just _slide_ down the rope like that, like a duncecap," Elizabeth muttered almost-silently, in the dark. "I think I practically skinned my palms..."

Will nodded, even though Elizabeth couldn't see him in the dark. His rough hands had probably also been scraped- but if so, he couldn't tell. The curse had its good points.

At first, Will was concerned that this whole hiding in rowboats thing was a uninspired idea. _I mean, the pirates will pile in, they'll step on our heads or hands, they'll say something irritating with bad grammar, like, 'Oy' lookit' 'ere mateys, it be the two runerways we was figurin' on torturin ta death!', and then Elizabeth and I get tortured and shot. Pretty rotten ending. _

But luckily, the oars were gone. So the pirates simply walked underwater, tugging along the jollyboats by ropes.

Will and his dearest waited antsily under the fresh white sailcloth and black, tattery, rat-bitten sailcloth, and finally, Will risked a peek up over the rowboat-rim. The supply-stuffed jollyboats were all swishing up through the peacock-blue water now, and thumping gently onto the sandy shore. Will ducked down an inch, keeping his eyes low and shadowed under the moldy, moth-bitten, black sailcloth, as the pirates approached the boats to collect their knicknacks and portmanteaus.

Locust was chained in the same boat as Anamaria, who was singing a catchy ditty to herself that had something to do with acid, boiling oil, and grinding off pirate fingers to feed to pet piranhas.

"I commend you on your most fitting song choice," Locust commented dryly over his shoulder to his fellow captive, as they were both hauled out of the boat by Simbakka and Clubba.

Anamaria gave a catty smirk, and kept on singing loudly as she and Locust were dragged across the beach.

"Wait," Barbossa said, as his crew approached the rum-cellar. "Him first," he added, shoving Locust towards the hatch. "Just in case there be a nasty trap down there."

Locust haughtily strode down the hatch, looking as lofty as a person with tied wrists could look.

"I've only a two-shots chance of nailing that monkey-loving cur..." Elizabeth muttered to herself, glaring at Barbossa, and absently fidgeting her fingertips over the pistols in her belt. "Just as soon as the curse is lifted..."

Personally, Will liked monkeys, but he decided maybe now wasn't the best thing to mention it a girl with a grudge against the tiny primates.

A few moments passed, and no screams of agony came from down in the cellar, so finally, the pirates figured it was safe to go, and finally, last of them were scurrying down through the rum-cellar hatch.

"Now," Will whispered to Elizabeth.

The two of them scuttled across the beach like nervous crabs, with hunched shoulders and hunted eyes. They hid behind palms trees every now and then.

"Oh- ow-" Elizabeth gasped quietly.

"What?" Will asked suddenly, stopping short and staring at Elizabeth, concern written in large print all over his face.

"Nothing- the sand's hot and there are shells- oh just come on!" she hissed quietly back.

Looking down, Will saw that Elizabeth had cut her bare feet on the beach shells- and he'd cut his feet too, but hadn't even noticed. Odd.

Will lost his balance and tripped twice on their way to the cellar- a frustrating reminder that he was still drunk. Elizabeth helped him up again, and together, they made it the final few yards, then snuck down the creaky, water-warped, palm-wood steps, into the dark.

As they crept along the passageway, Will painlessly stubbed his toes on strewn, empty rum-bottles, then tripped over a crossbow, loaded with a heavy-duty brass bolt. He almost picked it up, then decided he was a better aim with sword-throwing then crossbows. His hand wrapped tightly around the hilt of the blade stuck in his belt. _Walking, walking...stumbling, dizzy, more walking..._ after what seemed like much too long, they approached the cave mouth, where murky, green-tinged moonlight shone in. Will could hear metal clanging on metal, and raised voices beyond...

"I say- Arnald Macready?" a girl's voice exclaimed. "Aren't you the twit who knocked into me at the train station? How'd _you_ get here?!"

"Bad luck, gardening, and some stupid rings," a boy's voice replied dourly.

"Sssurrender, pathetic Pevensies!" hissed something that didn't sound even remotely human.

Keeping Elizabeth safely behind him, Will peered out into the other world.

Teal moonlight glistered everywhere, piercing the grey fog.

And there, there were the pirates, bewildered and amazed, behind a semi-circle of mossy boulders, peeking out at what sounded like a gargantuan, clashy fight. Will couldn't see exactly what was going on, due to three raggedy pirates standing in his line of sight. They were skeletons now, all of them, even Jack, transformed by the moonlight.

"Well, now we all know how ye survived maroonin' the first time, Jack..." Barbossa muttered, gawking around at the lush Narnian landscape, obviously impressed with the place.

But skeleton Jack wasn't listening- he was glancing over at a strange hunk of stone, carved in the shape of a long-limbed, slightly reptilian creature in an apron. "Charming statuary they've got 'ere," he muttered. "Wonder what all the sword-swinging yonder's about?"

"This place is 'mazing!" another one of the skeletons added, looking around in wonderment.

"_Insane,_ dat's what it be," another one argued. "Barmy, preposterous! Deranged! How can ya just _walk _inta another _world?_ It don't make _sense_!"

"Makes 'bout as much sense as you all bein' zombified skull-faces," Anamaria put in sourly.

"There, _that's_ the boy-" Barbossa exclaimed sharply, pointing. "Edmund Pevensie- that ratty little skeleton with the striped necktie round his skull, who's stabbin' that harpoon at that wolf-woman."

"You say that as if wolf-women were _normal_," Jack commented.

"Hey, spiffy!" Regetti crowed, "da kid's right _there_, we din' even hafta search anywheres or nuffin!"

"Wait in the tunnel," Will whispered over his shoulder to Elizabeth.

"No- Will!" she hissed, but he was already on the move, stepping out into the open.

As the aqua moonlight hit him, the blacksmith's damaged flesh rotted and dissolved, curling back into dessicated strands, exposing bones and joints, and revealing the graveyard creature he'd become. Will snuck forward and to the side of the cluster of cursed pirates, seeing if he could catch sight of the skeleton boy-king.

_Remarkable! _Will thought, as he glanced out into the melee of sword-swinging, scrapping, dodging, beings. _A centaur! Goblins! Actual __goblins_! _Talking animals! Giant armadillo! Other odd creatures! Wer-wolf in a dress!_ Will shook his head slightly, wondering if it was all just a drunken mirage. _Nope, still there. _Will spotted a blue skirt and whirling brown hair- it was young Queen Lucy, swinging a broken lantern into the snout of a giant black snake. There were three other weapon-wielding young people near Lucy- a dark-haired lass in a red navy jacket, a sandy-haired boy in his teens, and a slightly taller, dark-haired boy with a metal glove, and a wiry skeleton, all desperately fighting off fairytale beasts.

"Oh _gosh_-" Lucy moaned suddenly, "I was so busy organizing and prepping a big grand rescue party back at Cair Paravel, I forgot to actually tell them _where_ to go. So we've got no backup. Argh, why am I so gosh-darn _stupid_ sometimes!?"

"Hey, don't fret it, Lu," the skeleton zombie next to Lucy, who Will assumed must be Edmund, said brightly, "you couldn't have known the Witch would summon us right _to_ her. I mean, who could predict _that_?"

_Hey wait, I should help! _Will thought suddenly, realizing he'd been too mesmerized watching the fight to realize there were children in danger. _I should save them! _Will rushed forward, sword in hand, bravely charging out to join the fight- but something hit into his ankle, and he tripped flat onto his ribcage and skull-face. There was a jingle of gold earrings, as the boot that tripped Will over him kicked him over onto his side, then someone was yanking him up to his feet by his arm. _Oh right, the pirates,_ Will remembered too late, staring into Grapples ugly, hollow-eyed, nose-less skull. _Urgh, stupid Grapple's got me pinned. Stupid new boyfriend of Elizabeth's. I __hate him. Now_ _ the royal Narnian children are fighting that scary wer-wolf lady and those odd fairytale creatures all on their own, whilst I sulk and mope and fidget on the sidelines, wishing Grapple and his tree-trunk arms would drop dead. _

"Found Turner, Captain!" Grapple exclaimed victoriously.

"Excellent, Deputy-commander," Barbossa replied. "Now William, lad, do be congenial, and do tell- where be that chit gov'nor's daughter what tags after ya?" he asked, glancing back at the tunnel.

"She was devoured by an aquatic jaguar," Will lied swiftly.

"_Sure_ she were," Pintel scoffed.

"Tell me, Edmund, where did you find this new magic?" Will heard a purring voice rasp in the background, followed by a high-pitched yowl, shrieking, "Why won't you _die!_"

All eyes briefly turned back towards the battlefield.

The wer-woman was grabbing a chunk of king Edmund's black hair in her clawed fist, and plunging a sword through his chest at an upwards angle. "Reveal to me your secret to your undying corpsified state, and I _may _not turn you to stone," she rasped.

"Wow, you don't get an offer like _that_ every day," Edmund retorted sarcastically, looking pretty darn exasperated.

"Yer ladyship," Barbossa interjected chivalrously, finally sauntering out towards the fight, "if I might be so bold as ta interject a note here- that there boy cannot die until we un-curse him."

While still gripping the back of Edmund's hair, and clutching the bloody hilt of the sword she was brutally running him through with, the wer-woman threw what seemed like her entire arsenal of sarcasm into three words, and said, "_Explain_, pitiful mortal."

"Oh, that's just it, milady," Barbossa countered, still pretending he was the master of pleasantry. "I'm not mortal, and neither be he."

"Who_ are_ you?" the wer-woman demanded in a voice like strychnine, cocking her fuzzy-eared head to the side as she stared Barbossa and his crew down. "Telmarines? Archenlanders?"

"Nay, milady, we hail from the other side of the veil."

"Ghosts?" the wer-woman accused sharply.

"If ya believe in ghost stories."

"Ardently," the wer-woman replied, smiling into Edmund's annoyed face. Glancing back with withering scrutiny at Barbossa, she rasped, "Cursed, you say?" she added, "And how, pray, do you mean to lift this boy's... curse?"

"All I need is his blood. A few drops'll do."

"_All _you require is his blood?" the wer-woman repeated in bewildered bemusement.

"Aye. Just his blood, and _this_ coin," Barbossa explained, twirling the skull-faced medallion hung around his weather-scarred neck.

A dark smile glimmered around the corner of her canine mouth, as the wer-woman yanked the bloody sword out of Edmund's chest, and deftly tossed it to Barbossa.

Barbossa caught the sword expertly, yanked the tip through the thin, fragile, gold chain-links of his coin necklace, scraped the coin over the flat of the bloody blade with a long, flourished movement, and drops the coin. It twirled over itself twice, and landed in the wheelbarrow, in the chest.

Will became mortal again, he could _feel_ again. He could feel _everything_, every gash, every scar, every stitch.

His mind couldn't take it.

Blackness was the best retreat.

As his face hit the fleecy, damp moss, the last thing Will heard was Elizabeth's screams.


End file.
